


In Montreuil-sur-Mer

by inigosolo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Bickering, Brick Javert, Brick Valjean, Identity Porn, Internalized Homophobia, Javert's MASSIVE hands, Javert's sideburns, Jealousy, M-sur-Fixit, M-sur-M fix-it, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Original Title is Original, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Religious Guilt, Sassy Javert, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valjean's Confused Everything, Valjean's conflicted emotions, Valjean's confused head heart and groin, agonisingly slow burn, awkward but snarky Javert, awkward valjean, brick centric, face washing, fear conflated with attraction, if M-Sur-M was a soap opera, provincial, there must be more than this provincial life, valjean x self awareness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-02-28 02:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigosolo/pseuds/inigosolo
Summary: A painfully oblivious Valjean falls slowly and agonisingly in love with Inspector Javert without realising quite what's happening, while wrestling with his dual identity as the Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer.This Brick-centric story is written in a meandering 'slice of life' style with extremely slow burn romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur Madeleine is troubled beyond measure by the arrival of the new police inspector.
> 
> WARNING: This story contains some period-typical racism and ignorance.

**It will be clear from what has been said previously that although Monsieur Madeleine’s existence in Montreuil-sur-mer was useful and productive, it was also, by his own choice, a lonely and melancholy one.  By and large Monsieur Madeleine rejected the offers of society and friendship which were made to him. He felt he did not deserve them.**

His thoughts were often troubled and guilty, his countenance marked by sadness.

Oddly, when this self-censure was personified by the appearance of the cold and sceptical Javert, it came as something of a relief to Madeleine. To have a dark figure from his past haunting him, the threat of exposure constantly hanging over him like the sword of Damocles... it both discomforted and settled him. The externalisation of his fears and doubts led to a relief of the internal pressure.

Even so, the moment when respected industrialist and town benefactor Monsieur Madeleine was first introduced to the new police inspector was a terrible shock to the poor man.  Monsieur Madeleine had left his ex-convict alter ego so far behind him that it was even more horrifying to be suddenly reintroduced to Valjean than it was to be suddenly reintroduced to Javert.

Looking into Javert's stern, unsmiling face, knowing that he might be recognised, Valjean’s heart beat faster than it had done in years. His palms began to sweat and his ears felt hot. When they shook hands Javert cast a curious, impersonal glance over Valjean's face. Valjean did his best to hide the feeling that a bolt of lightning had just travelled up his arm.

Miraculously, the encounter passed without further incident.  Javert was being given a brief tour of Montreuil-sur-mer by the town clerk by way of an introduction to his new post, and the two men went on their way towards the docks.

Valjean wandered for a little while afterward, in a quite different direction to the one he'd been headed in when he'd met the two. Indeed, he had completely forgotten what errand he'd been on. His heart continued to thunder in his chest, he felt quite unwell. On his way back to his office he was stopped three times by people asking if he'd been taken ill, and did he require a doctor?

That night Monsieur Madeleine could not sleep. He saw Javert's face before his eyes and felt as though someone were squeezing his chest. When he did at last fall asleep he dreamt that he was back in Toulon, and there was Javert as he'd been then, young and dark and clean-shaven. He woke sweating and grasping at his wrists and ankles because he was sure they had been shackled in the night. When he arrived at the factory the following morning his foremen couldn't understand why he was so frayed and distracted. Madeleine had to force himself to keep his attention on business matters.

He spent that whole day in feverish anticipation of seeing Javert again.

It wasn't until he was walking home late in the evening that he felt a tell-tale prickling of the short hairs on the back of his neck and turned around slowly.  The tall, ominous figure of the new inspector was standing at the street corner, watching him. 

Dread pooled in Valjean's gut. His heart seemed to be trying to escape via his mouth. With a super-human effort, Monsieur Madeleine raised his arm in a stiff wave, which was not returned.

That evening he once again could not settle to eat a meal. He spent another restless night, what little sleep he did get was tormented with iron collars and the lash, and a young guard who looked at home in the baking Mediterranean sun.

The pattern repeated itself every day and night until it became his new routine. Madeleine grew thin and pale without realising it.

He wondered if God could be using Javert to torment him. Perhaps... Yes, sometimes in moments of self-reflection he had felt uneasy, before Javert's arrival in town. He had wondered whether he deserved such a peaceful life. Could this be a test?

(In moments such as these it did not occur to Valjean that it might be unfair to reduce a man's life to an antagonistic role in one's own. In his turmoil he could become quite self-absorbed.)

In those first few months following Javert's appointment, Monsieur Madeleine would have been surprised to learn that the gossips of the town attributed his altered behaviour as a symptom of his infatuation with some unknown and unattainable young woman.

 

*********

 

At first the only way to ease his mind had been for Valjean to be able to predict exactly where Javert would be at any time of day. This involved finding out where the man put up (a shockingly humble lodging house in the cheap area near the East wall), how many hours a day the man spent at his job (almost all of them) and what interests the man had outside of work (none as far as Valjean could see, apart from once crouching down a little to scratch behind the ears of a stray cat that frequented the town square).

With the kind of subtlety that comes easily to a man who has managed to escape from prison four times, Valjean casually traversed Javert's narrow street enough times in the course of his usual evening walks to build up a semi-accurate picture of the other man's routine.  He also timed the walk from Javert's home to his and estimated how long it would take a determined man to sprint the distance.

All of the casual, back-of-his mind calculations he had made for a situation in which he might be forced to leave town quietly in the middle of the night had to be re-calculated to allow for Javert's presence and avoid leaving by a route that took him anywhere near any of Javert's more likely haunts.

 

All this was considered somewhere far away from the forefront of Monsieur Madeleine's mind. Indeed, he was barely conscious of it.

 

Funny that an incident with an old man who did not even like Madeleine and a tipped-over cart should be enough, in one instant, to smash all the peace of mind that Valjean had managed to gather about him with these efforts.

*********

It was a little less than a year after Javert's arrival in town that Monsieur Madeleine finally bowed to public pressure and became Monsieur le Maire.

He had learned to live with Javert's presence in the intervening time. He contrived to avoid contact with the Inspector when he could, and when he couldn't he brazened through it, acting almost as detached as the law man himself.

Sometimes Javert regarded him with the same look of suspicion as he had done on that first day. But this in and of itself was not unusual.  Javert regarded most people with suspicion. He seemed to be in a state of constant vigilance for any transgressions, treating the provincial town of Montreuil-sur-mer much as if it were the Bagne of Toulon.

If Valjean's memory served, Javert was even surlier and more closed-off here than he had been as a prison guard. It was quite impossible to warm to the man, and almost no-one in the town had a good word to say about him. Although it couldn't be denied that the streets were generally safer and more orderly than when the previous police inspector had been in charge.

*********

On Monsieur le Maire's first day of office he had a meeting with the police inspector scheduled for half past three.

This, Madeleine expected to be the only challenging task of the day. His morning meetings had consisted of him being congratulated, him being praised, and him being gifted pastries.

He resolved to meet Javert with professional coldness, to convey complete indifference both to the man and to his office.

Alas, at two ‘O clock, Madeleine had a meeting with Monsieur Lapadite, a genial old gentleman who was well-liked and influential in the community.

The first thing the old man said after their pleasantries ran out was;

“Well, I'll come to the point, I'm here to see if you mean to do anything about this Javert character. Your predecessor refused to act against him, but I know I'm not the only man in this town who would like to see him dismissed.”

Such an influx of thoughts came to Valjean at the same time it was hard to make sense of them all. Perhaps the overriding one was _'Aha! A chance to be rid of him!'_

What he said was;

“Perhaps you had better start by telling me the nature of your complaint against the man.”

Lapadite stared at him as though he was a simpleton.

“You're not serious?”

Valjean said nothing.

“For goodness sake. The man's a gypsy! He doesn't even try to hide it! The way he acts you'd think we were lucky that he was gracing us with his presence! This town has been very fortunate to avoid caravans of his sort in our fields. But you mark my words, they won't stay away for long when they find out that one of their own is in a position of power.”

Monsieur Madeleine was a composed man, but at that moment his mouth was gaping open slightly in his disappointment.

“Am I correct in thinking that your complaint is in no way connected to the man's work?”

Lapadite blinked his surprise. (Madeleine had always seemed to dislike and mistrust the new police inspector, so he and his friends had assumed that their concerns would find a sympathetic ear...)

“Well... He's a rude and disagreeable sort of creature...”

Madeleine cut him off.

“Let me be clear, Monsieur Lapadite. The only complaint that I will hear about Inspector Javert – or any public servant in this town – is one which has direct bearing on his professional conduct.”

He finished speaking and stood up abruptly so that Monsieur Lapadite understood he should be leaving.

When the man was gone, Madeleine sank back into his chair and cursed softly. For a moment, he had had a glimmer of hope for a legitimate complaint about Javert, one which he could use to get him transferred far from here.

But if the Prefecture in Paris saw fit to give Javert this post then evidently his parentage was of no more concern to them than it had been to the authority of the Bagne of Toulon.

All old man Lapadite had achieved was to make Madeleine feel... almost protective of Javert. If all that could be said against Javert was that his skin was dark and that he had an unpleasant demeanour – well, then Valjean was going to be stuck with him.

By half past three he felt that he had regained his composure, but when Javert stepped smartly into his office, he was no longer sure.

As was customary by now, Madeleine's pulse began to race, his palms grew damp and the back of his neck warmed.  Jean Valjean's muscles coiled in anticipation of flight.

“Good day to you Inspector.” he managed, “Please take a seat.”

“If it does not offend Monsieur le Mayor, I would prefer to stand.” Javert said in his deep, reverberating voice. He stood stiffly in the middle of the office with his hat tucked under his right arm, looking impossibly tall.

The refusal to sit did not surprise Valjean, but still he felt off-balance, flustered. He caught himself glancing surreptitiously at the skin of Javert's face. It was true, now that he considered it, that up here in the North the man looked far more foreign and conspicuous than he had done down in the South, where darker skin and hair were not so unusual.

Monsieur Madeleine realised with something of a jolt that he should be speaking.

“Inspector Javert. I intend to stay out of all police matters as much as possible. I have complete faith in you. I will not interfere with how you do your job. Having said that, should you ever need assistance in any matter, my door is always open to you.”

He finished this little speech thinking that he had said more or less what he had planned to, but somehow – and he again blamed this on Monsieur Lapadite – it had come out more warmly than he had intended.

Javert's forehead creased in what might have been confusion.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.” he said coldly, sounding as unconvinced as Valjean felt.

They wallowed for a moment in the painful awareness that this meeting was a formality both would rather have forgone.

“Well... Do you have any problems you would like to discuss with me?” Madeleine prompted at length.

“No, Monsieur le Maire.”

Monsieur le Maire had a strong impression that Javert would rather have all his teeth pulled out than ask him for help.

Somehow though, he couldn't quite leave things there. He had a vision of himself shovelling words desperately into a bottomless pit.

“I will of course require a daily bulletin of arrests, disputes and so on. Just a very brief summary of the important events. There's no need for you to deliver this in person, of course. Perhaps one of your subordinates could bring a note. I only want to remain informed.”

There was not a flicker of reaction upon Javert's stony features.

“Very well, Monsieur le Maire.”

Madeleine thought that Inspector Javert showed admirable reserve and propriety. Jean Valjean wanted to throw the desk at him. 

“Well then. Thank you for your time, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

“Good day to you, Monsieur le Maire.” Javert gave a low, elegant bow, straightened up, brushed off his hat and left.

Valjean let out a long, slow breath.

His heart was still pounding against his ribcage.

 _He knows_ , he thought miserably. _He surely knows._

_It's only a matter of time before he finds evidence. Oh god, why did it have to be Javert, why this town? And why is he drawing it out? Does he seek to torment me?_

_No no, no._

_He can't be sure. He never would have allowed me to become mayor if he was certain..._

_No, no. It's just an outlandish suspicion he has. He's not a demon. He's not a mind-reader. He's just a man. An irritating, cold-hearted man._

Madeleine was still turning these thoughts over when his secretary knocked on his door to ask him if everything was alright, no reason, only his four o'clock appointment had been waiting for a quarter of an hour.

 

*********

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert gets up to some actual crimefighting. Valjean is conflicted (and impressed).

 

 

The evening of Monsieur Madeleine's second official day as the Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer found him in his new office. He had divided his time between the factory and the Mayor's office with reasonable success, and yet he still felt like something of an imposter amongst all the fine old furniture.

Sitting in the intricately carved Mayor's chair made him melancholy.

What on this Earth did he know about being a Mayor? He sometimes felt like he was still learning how to be a factory owner.

Now Valjean would have to make difficult decisions for others and pretend to be wise. The only comfort was that his predecessor had made something of a hash of the job. Madeleine was hopeful that with good intentions he might be able to do a little bit better.

He jolted in his seat when there was a rap on his office door. It was too hard a knock to be his secretary – in any case, the old woman had gone home an hour ago.

“Come in.” He said with a prickle of dreadful anticipation.

As the door opened he fully expected to see a dark, long-haired head appear.

_He's found his proof and come to arrest me... At least I won't have to be Mayor any more..._

The man who entered was wearing the uniform of a soldier. He was young, with cropped brown hair.  Madeleine recognised him but could not readily bring to mind his name.

“Excuse me, Monsieur le Maire,” The young man began, affably. “Monsieur l'Inspector sent me to deliver this report.” He handed Madeleine a folded slip of paper, saluted, and at Madeleine's nod, left.

He was still, the paper in his hand, for a good few minutes after the door had closed. His heart had slowed a little when the man at his door had turned out not to be Javert, now it quickened again.

What report?

Was this a warning? A threat?

No, if Javert was certain he would surely just arrest him, he wouldn't play games…

And then Madeleine remembered asking the inspector the day before to have one of his men deliver a daily report of police business in the small town. It had been a rash notion that he had proposed in order to fill a gap in conversation... And also, perhaps, an effort to put Javert in his place a little.

Which was really quite petty and ridiculous of him. He knew the policeman to be unflappable anyway.

At last Madeleine steadied his fingers and unfolded the note.

At the top of the page, in large, neat handwriting, was written;

Monsieur le Maire, as requested,

Then halfway down the otherwise blank page;

 

_All is well._

 

And, at the very bottom, the word Inspector, followed by an ink squiggle of which a large 'J' was the only discernible letter.

Jean Valjean stared at the report for a few moments, then burst into rich, full laughter that he was quite unaccustomed to.

 

*********

Javert could not have guessed how his daily bulletins were close to becoming the highlight of the Mayor's days.

Madeleine did not understand it himself, but nevertheless found that after a hard days mayoring, factory-owning and general do-gooding, he would await almost eagerly the delivery of a note by one of Javert's men.

Usually it was just a few lines, summarising briefly the goings on – or lack thereof – in town in a droll fashion that managed at once to be both succinctly informative and wittily dismissive. Madeleine couldn't read them without smiling. Valjean had known Javert to be a sharp-minded man, of course. But he had never expected the edge of wry humour evident in the notes. He kept the bulletins in the order he had received them in a stack in the middle drawer of his desk, judging that some of them contained valuable information which he might need to refer to again. 

The one-sided correspondence gave him another unlooked-for insight into Javert's character. When events in Montreuil-sur-Mer were at their most mundane and provincial (which was more often than not) Javert's reports were at their driest, infused with a sort of despair at having to deal with such matters.

When actual _crime_ was being investigated, Javert's bulletins were excitable, unselfconscious, widely spaced, untidy, smudged.

Quite naturally, in his new position as mayor, Madeleine requested the official reports of various arrests Javert had made in Paris before his transfer.  Upon glancing through the copies when they arrived, he was amazed at how thrilling some of them were – all the more so because he knew that Javert would have exaggerated neither the danger nor his own part in the events.

Reading about the fearless way Javert had thrown himself into dangerous situations, about how methodically he had investigated the most trifling of loose ends, Madeleine realised for the first time how unhappy the man must have been to be posted to a middling back-water like Montreuil-sur-mer. What a slap in the face for the tireless Inspector.

Having made a few enquiries, Madeleine understood that Javert had spent three years working for the Prefecture before his promotion to Inspector had seen him posted out here.

No wonder the man was sullen. After working in Paris – where surely intrigues were occurring every minute of every hour – to have won his promotion at the cost of having to come out to cow and housewife country, where gossip and petty misdemeanours were the order of the day?

Even Valjean judged Javert to be overqualified for the post.

And life in this provincial town had another downside for a man with foreign blood like Javert - constant casual prejudice. Perhaps Javert had been able to avoid it in Paris, where the exotic must have been more commonplace.  And back in Toulon, where insults and racial slurs had been thrown about openly, Javert had been able to parry them equally openly with cutting remarks of his own, not to mention the ever-present threat of his cudgel.

In Montreuil-sur-mer, rumours were whispered, insinuations were made behind hands and degrading remarks would never be made to the man's face, never openly declared, only hinted at.

There was no way for Javert to retaliate to these veiled attacks from civilised people.

Little wonder that the man was unsociable.

 _And to top it all off_ , thought Valjean glumly, _the Mayor is an escaped convict and he can't find a way to prove it._

*********

After three months as imposter-mayor, Valjean’s uneasiness was beginning to wane.  He had been surprised by how many of the disputes he was called upon to settle merely required a lick of common sense.

It seemed to him that what people really wanted was for someone else to make their decisions for them.  Generally, people respected whatever judgement he had seen fit to make – which astonished Valjean – and disputes were settled peaceably. If in any doubt, Madeleine looked for inspiration and guidance from either the Lord or old country lore.

Gradually, the fear that someone would find him out was beginning to fade into the background once more. Only his inbuilt and unwavering fear of Javert remained with him.

_My life is once again in Javert's irritatingly capable hands._

Meanwhile, Madeleine was actually managing to do some good for the town. Often this was accomplished simply, by refusing bribes. It astonished Madeleine how much the previous Mayor seemed to have been on the take.

Valjean took a perverse pleasure in playing dumb when he was offered a bribe. He would pretend not to understand what the increasingly desperate businessman was proposing to him for as long as possible, and then he would casually drop Inspector Javert's name into the conversation on an entirely unrelated matter. The businessman would go pale, make his excuses and leave, every time.

They never tried to bribe Madeleine twice.

He did not feel it necessary to disclose this attempted bribery to Javert himself.  Madeleine was not by nature a vindictive man, and although he knew that Javert would have a field day with all of the implications against the former Mayor - who still resided in the town - Valjean couldn't help but feel that he had no right to cast this particular stone.

All the same, he derived a bizarre satisfaction from using Javert's name in this way without the man's knowledge.

It was a bit like having his own terrifying guard dog.

But there was always that niggling worry...  For a man with Javert's intelligence and tenacity, how long could it really take to find proof that Madeleine and Jean Valjean were one and the same?

Jean Valjean’s days were numbered.  

_My guard dog will turn on me and rip my throat out._

All the same, minor victories against dishonest merchants were something - positive steps towards a fairer future for Montreuil-sur-Mer.

And of course, Madeleine continued in his usual endeavours, ensuring that there was work for those willing to do it, and that even those less willing didn't go too hungry.

*********

 

Madeleine was still in the Mayor's office one Sunday near midnight, drawing up some figures for a new soup canteen outside his factory, when there was a short, sharp rapping on his door.

 _Javert's man is very late today,_ Madeleine thought with a slight smile.

Getting up to open the door, he was startled to find the lanky figure of Javert himself, leaning slightly against the door frame, as was his wont.

Valjean flinched backwards ever so slightly in alarm at the expression of far-away triumph on Javert's face.

_Oh God. He's found his proof._

He stepped backwards into his office.

“Well, come in Javert.” He barked out, with an immense effort of will. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Javert stepped languidly into the office. His dark eyes were gleaming.

When he looked more closely at the man's features, Valjean could see bruising, cuts and scratches, a smattering of drying blood, and his stomach clenched in sudden concern.

“What's happened?” He enquired, speaking far more softly now.

Javert blinked once and suddenly seemed quite himself again.

“Monsieur le Maire,” He said earnestly, “I have good news. That gang of robbers who are wanted in Étaples arrived in town today.”

Valjean gaped. The gang had become infamous in the past few weeks, moving from town to town, village to village, robbing and even murdering. There had been concerns raised that they would soon enter the countryside surrounding Montreuil-sur-Mer.

“How is that _good_ news?”

Javert grinned a broad and terrible grin. “Because I've arrested them.” He said, almost a growl.  Then he seemed to remember himself, forcing the self-satisfied expression from his face before continuing. “They were attempting to rob the Widow Maberly – Monsieur le Maire will remember that she had a considerable amount of money from her son recently and has not been at all discreet about it. In any case, I interrupted the villains in the act.  The widow is safe now and the gang are in the custody of the guards at the post. I thought that Monsieur le Maire would want to know straight away, and seeing the light still on in your office I came here to inform you.”

By now Javert's face was sombre, but the satisfied gleam still shone in his eyes. Valjean had never seen the man so happy.  Energy seemed to be radiating from him.  The transformation was astonishing.

He tried to gather his thoughts.

“My congratulations, Inspector. I am sure that I will understand more fully when you have made your report. But not now man, you're hurt, I must fetch the doctor.”

Javert looked surprised, and touched his face gingerly as if only just noticing his injuries. He pulled the fingers back with a sticky coating of blood and grime.

“I would not bother the doctor with a trifle like this,” He said impatiently, “He will be abed at this hour. Washing my face will suffice 'til morning”

Valjean knew very well that he would have said exactly the same thing in Javert's place.

Nevertheless, he was overtaken by something, curiosity or perhaps the inexplicable worry lodged in his gut, and he instructed the Inspector to remain where he was whilst he retrieved the small bottle of iodine tincture that he kept hidden in his secretary's desk and fetched a basin of water.

When Madeleine returned to his office Javert was distractedly brushing dirt and gravel from his coat onto the carpet.

“You are not injured elsewhere, I hope? Only the cuts on your face?” Madeleine let his clean white handkerchief soak in the tepid water and added a few drops of the iodine tincture as Javert looked on warily.

“No, I am not injured Monsieur…  What are you doing?”

“I'm going to bathe the cuts on your face, man.  They are more than _a trifle_.  If you won't see the doctor, this is the least I can do.  If I understand correctly, you've just admitted to an act of great heroism. The people of the town will want to congratulate you properly. And I’m sure that will go better for all parties if your face isn't inflamed and infected.”

Javert looked like he couldn't decide which part of that statement to disagree with first.

“I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself.” He said at last, awkwardly.

“Without a mirror?” Valjean countered, though in truth he had just seen a small glass while rooting in his secretary’s desk. “Please sit down.” He moved the candlestick across the desk towards them, indicating the empty chair with his other hand. 

But Javert would not sit, his broad shoulders visibly tensing.

So Madeleine wrung out the soaked handkerchief carefully before drawing closer to the taller man and reaching upwards, forcing his hand to be steady though it badly wanted to tremble. He cupped the left side of Javert's face in one hand while his other hand delicately swiped the handkerchief over the battered right side. Javert hissed very quietly at the first touch of the iodine on the wounds but did not pull away.

For a time, Madeleine simply worked on getting all the pieces of grit out from where they were embedded in Javert's cheek, jaw and temple.

“What did they do to you?” He asked as casually as he could.

“One of them ground my face into Widow Maberly's front wall a few times.” Javert muttered dismissively.

He had actually begun to stoop a little so that Madeleine could reach his face more easily.

Valjean held the man's left mandible tightly to keep his head still while he worked. He noticed the sharp prominence of the jawbone, and that Javert's large side whiskers, which from a distance looked perfectly even, were slightly lop-sided up this close.

When he had finished cleaning the man's serrated skin as best he could, and dabbed somewhat ineffectually at the wound marring his eyebrow, he turned his attention to Javert's badly split lip, rinsing out the handkerchief before starting again. He was forced to use his thumb to part Javert's lips slightly in order to access the split. The moment that the pad of his thumb pressed on the intact portion of Javert's bottom lip, Valjean heartily regretted volunteering himself for this. The intimacy of the situation was suddenly unbearable. It was highly unusual for Jean Valjean to have close physical contact with another human being that did not end in violence. Not since he had left the tight unit of his sister and her children. Something about the combination of gently touching Javert's mouth combined with having to stand on his toes to do it struck him as unspeakably awkward.

Valjean's face burned as he washed away the dried blood from around the cut. The flesh of Javert's lips was shockingly warm and he smelled strongly of snuff.  In his peripheral vision he could see what might have been a spot of colour high on Javert's unmarred left cheekbone.  As Javert cast his eyes down Valjean noticed how very dark his eyelashes were. He could feel the bristling of stubble under his hand as his focus returned to Javert’s thin lips – normally devoid of colour but now quite red.

“Will I live?” Javert rasped harshly, the movement of his mouth around the words causing his lip to split open wider and bead with tiny droplets of blood down the centre.

Valjean dabbed iodine into the split again and heard Javert's sharp intake of breath.

He grasped for calm. It would be foolish to let Javert unnerve him now, when he was nearly finished.

“That's the best I can do. At least you're clean.”  Valjean turned away swiftly, rinsing out the handkerchief and capping the iodine bottle. His breathing was unaccountably rapid.

“Thank you.” Javert said icily, his tone reminding Madeleine that he had not asked for help.

“Will you stay to write your report?” Valjean asked without knowing why.

“No. I shall go to look in on the prisoners. You will have my full report on your desk first thing in the morning.”

“That won't be... Very well, Javert.  And… well done.”

Javert glanced at his eyes once and then swiftly fixed on a point above his right shoulder. “Goodnight, Monsieur le Maire.”  The Inspector exited briskly with a purposeful stride.

Somehow, Valjean understood very little of what had just transpired.  He sat in the Mayor’s chair and tried to go back to work on the soup canteen figures, but his eyes kept wandering to the bloodied and dirty water in the basin, the grit on the carpet.

He felt entirely alone in a way that he hadn't done earlier this evening before Javert had knocked on his door.

*********

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An altercation.

 

Madeleine made his way to the mayor's office early the next morning.  All the same, as had been promised, the police report lay on his desk awaiting him.  He wondered if Javert had slept at all.

He sat down and opened the report to read about last night’s arrests.

Halfway through the document he stood, extremely agitated, and began walking to the door. He nearly reached the handle before turning sharply and striding back to his desk to resume reading.

When he had finished the last sentence, he left at once with the report in hand, forgetting to bring his coat or hat, and marched across the square in the direction of the police post – somewhere he wouldn't normally have gone under his own volition.

Entering, he spoke sharply to the duty sergeant, who was glancing at Monsieur le Maire askance over the top of wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I wish to speak to Inspector Javert at once.”

The duty sergeant opened his mouth to reply, but a deep voice from somewhere behind Madeleine interrupted him.

“I will see Monsieur le Maire in the office.” The Inspector answered with a formality that seemed to not quite fit the tiny provincial police post.

Madeleine glanced sideways at the duty sergeant, a short man named Bernard, whose gaze had flickered in the direction of the Inspector. He remembered that Javert had to keep face in front of the men of the guard, and for a moment this mollified him.

“Very well, Monsieur l'Inspector.” He acquiesced respectfully.

Javert held open the door to the long low room that served as both office and interrogation room. The young soldier with cropped brown hair who often delivered Javert's evening bulletins was slouched behind the desk writing something. He leapt up in surprise as the Madeleine entered and saluted Javert.

The Inspector gave an economical jerk of his head towards the hallway and the soldier left at once, closing the door behind him.

Javert lifted a pile of papers off a ratty old chair and set it down for the mayor before folding himself into the seat that the young soldier had just vacated and looking over the desk at Madeleine.

“Yes, Monsieur le Maire?”

The ridiculousness of the scene threatened to swamp Valjean. Events were conspiring to make him forget his purpose and urgency in coming here. He visited the police post so rarely that this room was quite unfamiliar to him, and the contrast between this shabby, shared office and his own large, finely furnished one was distracting. The window pane was tinged green with age and the place was crammed with shelves overflowing with paperwork and labelled evidence.

Javert's composure and dignity in the midst of all this was almost comical.

Added to this was the customary spark of discomfit that Valjean felt whenever he was in the Inspector's presence. The wind was rapidly leaving his sails. Perhaps this dressing down could have waited until later in the day.

“Are you feeling well, Inspector?” He enquired to start things off, peering at the man's bruised and battered face.

“Quite well, thank you.” Javert said curtly, though one hand came up to absently touch his jaw.

Valjean could see the angry red grazes where he had picked the grit and dirt out last night. They looked raw but clean. Javert's lip was still swollen and crusted with dried blood. Briefly Valjean remembered the feel of his thumb pressing against it.

“And you've seen the doctor?”

Javert grimaced. “I've no need to see the doctor, the cuts are clean and very shallow.”

Madeleine shook his head once, then nodded and made an effort to get back on track.

“Inspector, I've just finished reading your report on the arrests last night and I must tell you that I am very displeased with you.”

Javert's expression turned sour.

“How so, Monsieur le Maire?”

“You contravened procedure and sense by tackling those robbers by yourself.  Had I understood the circumstances fully last night I would certainly have discussed it with you then.  Four armed men of the most desperate and dangerous sort!  And you tackled them _alone_! A mile out from the centre of town! You should have fetched the guards before attempting the arrests.  I cannot imagine what possessed you to apprehend four – _four_! - such dangerous men on your own. It shows a degree of disregard for your own welfare that I cannot approve of.”  Valjean finished hotly.

Javert was blinking at him slowly, apparently trying to formulate a response.

Eventually he ground out in a low, tightly controlled voice; “I merely did my duty, Monsieur le Maire, acting in the best interests of the widow and of the town as a whole. I had walked out to Widow Maberly’s place as a routine precaution for three nights prior to last night, after all the fuss about her coming into money. It was by chance that the gang showed up while I was there.  I would have lost them had I headed back into town to fetch the guards, and had I tried to raise the alarm the blackguards would have heard me...”

“Yes, heard you and run off! And you wouldn't have had to place yourself in such outrageous danger!”

“And the gang would still have been on the loose! Ordinary citizens would have been in danger. They might have murdered the widow!  I am curious, what does Monsieur le Maire believe the job of a police officer entails, if not measured risk in the interest of keeping order? I can assure you I did not act in such a way out of any foolish notion of heroism. I was merely doing my duty as best I could.”

“But, but four armed men _by yourself_!”

Both of them had raised their voices now.

“Oh, if you _can_ call two pistols and a cudgel between them all armed! Enough to have dealt with the widow, perhaps.”

Valjean made an indignant noise in response to this, too agitated to speak.  Javert continued swiftly, pressing his advantage.

“I am charged with keeping the peace, it was a calculated risk.  And as it happened they were spread out and I was able to pick them off one by one. All that was required was a bit of thought given to my approach. Standard procedure at the prefecture.  Quite within my capabilities.”

“I… I don't doubt your capabilities, Javert...”

“Then, Monsieur le Maire, _what_ are we speaking of?” Javert's grey eyes were glinting across the room at him as he interrupted. “I admit that, had the widow been trapped under a heavy cart, perhaps, I would have known myself unequal to the task of lifting it off her.  But apprehending criminals is my merely my duty.”

Valjean gaped and his stomach dropped like a stone. 

He hadn’t the slightest idea what to say back to that, only that whatever it was, he wanted to shout it.  Even Javert looked wide-eyed, as though he had surprised himself with his words. 

_If he’s worried he’s gone too far that means that he still has no proof… Maybe he’s still not certain._

Valjean had been a fool to come here.  What did it matter if Javert risked his life single-handedly dragging criminals to this under-resourced police post.  He had lost this pointless verbal battle in a way that might prove dangerous for him, but as he breathed deeply through his nose to steady himself, an idea occurred to him that might at least prolong the war.

He calmed his features visibly and forced himself to smile at the Inspector.

“Javert, you deny that your actions last night had any hint of heroism, but I suspect that the citizens of this town will think differently when they become aware of what transpired.  Some form of recognition of your bravery would lift the spirits of the town, I think. A ceremony, perhaps...”

Javert's expression had moved through increasing stages of displeasure as Madeleine spoke. Now it was bordering on alarmed.

“Monsieur le Maire... You must know that I would find such a display... distasteful. Offensive, even. To be publicly thanked merely for doing my job...”  Javert trailed off, grimacing.

Madeleine's smile grew. He felt triumphant. “Very well, Inspector, I won't subject you to it.”  He conceded magnanimously. “Although, I suspect that the good Widow Maberly will already have got around to informing half the province of your actions. Even without a ceremony, I fear you will have to endure the admiration of the townspeople.”

By now the Inspector looked positively sullen.

Feeling it best to leave before Javert could counter him, Madeleine stood, inclined his head, and accidentally delivered something of a parting blow.

“You are _very_ good at your job, Javert.”

Javert's lip curled. Suddenly he was furious again, and it was tangible in the dingy room.

Valjean wanted to take a step back, but instead he stood as Madeleine and watched the effect his words had wrought on the policeman, the feral glow that now suffused him. Javert did not need to speak the words _'I know'_ or _'I don't need you to tell me that'_ or _'how dare you, you imposter?'_ for Valjean to hear them.

After another moment, Madeleine bowed slightly and left the room. As he exited the police post he was conscious of an incredible feeling of exhilaration that temporarily quietened all his fears and doubts.  It seemed to him that he blinked and was suddenly back in his own office. He tried to sit down behind his desk, but he could not settle, he needed to move, to pace, to walk.

He could not tell if he had been clever or foolish, kind or cruel, in his treatment of Javert just now.  He had not been conscious of any motives when going over to the police post, he had felt compelled to express his concern at Javert's heroic – well, _foolhardy_ – actions. But somewhere in the exchange between them a game had been played, and although Valjean did not understand the rules he seemed, temporarily, to have won it.

 

*********


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little touch of jealousy. : )
> 
> (WARNING: in this chapter two background characters are overheard exoticising and making racial slurs about Javert.)

 

Monsieur Madeleine's prophecy came true. The Widow Maberly had spread the tale of Javert's heroism in apprehending the gang that had attempted to burgle her far and wide.  As it was one of the more exciting things to have happened in Montreuil-sur-mer in the last decade, it captured the public imagination somewhat.

Of course, the dark-skinned Inspector was not venerated with the same enthusiasm that Madeleine himself had been after saving Fauchelevent from beneath the cart, but nonetheless the tide of public opinion seemed to be turning slightly in Javert's favour.

The elderly widow herself, who had been one of _'that swine_ ’ Javert's biggest detractors before the attempted robbery, was now his most vocal supporter. She began to bake cakes and pastries for him and leave them at the police post on a daily basis. She told anyone who would listen about how brave the Inspector was, and gave increasingly exaggerated accounts of how he had single-handedly fought off the villains who had attempted to break into her house.

The change in attitude gratified Monsieur Madeleine. He was pleased that people were beginning to appreciate the Inspector’s efforts after all this time.

He also knew from experience that a heroic action in defence of a resident could have the effect of lifting the whole town's spirits for a few weeks, improving people’s behaviour towards one another as a result.

The final pleasure that he took from Javert's sudden bloom in popularity was a little less public-spirited, however.

He couldn't have said why, but it rather amused him to see Javert discomfited. Valjean did not believe himself to be an especially petty man, yet he liked seeing Javert's stiff and awkward reaction when the townspeople smiled at him and congratulated him on the arrests and thanked him warmly.  He enjoyed the slight grimace on Javert's face as he grudgingly accepted Widow Maberly's baked goods.

Javert’s difficulty interacting in polite society reminded Valjean a little of his own troubles, especially when he had first come to town, before the mantle of Madeleine had settled on him fully. 

 

A less expected consequence of the furore about the arrests came in the form of another widow.

 

Madame Pelletier was in her thirties, tall, well-built and attractive. The townsfolk spoke well of her for the most part, though on occasion it was whispered that she was too upfront about her keenness to remarry. It was widely considered that the sooner she found a replacement for her dashing army officer husband, the better.

(Unfortunately for Madame Pelletier, she was developing a habit of picking the wrong candidates. She had briefly set her cap at Monsieur Madeleine before instinct had finally told her that he would not return her interest – or even, as it turned out, notice it.)

In the week following the incident at Widow Maberly's, Monsieur Madeleine was walking from the factory to the mayor's office one afternoon. As he walked he was idly pondering, not for the first time, whether it would be possible to somehow makes amends with Javert after their disagreement. He couldn’t help but hope that his behaviour at the police post hadn’t unduly offended the Inspector. But would attempting to extend something like friendship towards a man who held Valjean's liberty entirely in his hands lessen his risk or double it? It was not a question that he had an answer for, but that didn’t stop him from ruminating on it. 

As he neared the town square, he happened to spy Javert's looming figure stood outside the police post, apparently engaged in polite conversation with a woman. This struck Madeleine as a bizarre enough occurrence that it warranted slightly closer observation. As he passed by the police post he saw that the woman was Madame Pelletier, who had always been more than courteous towards Madeleine. Their eyes met briefly across the street and any hope he had harboured of avoiding a part in the conversation evaporated.

Oddly, as Madeleine greeted the two he noticed a reversal of what he had been expecting. Javert looked almost _relieved_ to see him, while Madame Pelletier appeared a little displeased at his intrusion.

After a few moments of extremely stilted pleasantries, Javert made his excuses and abruptly left on police business.

Valjean was watching the Inspector walk away – Javert had a very deliberate way of placing one foot in front of the other that marked him out as a former prison guard – when he became aware of Madame Pelletier doing the same thing. Valjean peered at the charming widow out of the corner of his eye and was astonished to find that not only was she _watching_ Javert, but that her eyes were travelling appraisingly up and down his figure from behind.  Realising with a start why she might have been annoyed at his intrusion on their conversation, Valjean was scandalised, feeling his face flood with warmth.

He had never been at all comfortable with… _relations_ between men and women.  Valjean understood very little of such matters.  Madeleine had done his best to avoid such situations at the factory by separating the sexes as much as was possible.

Besides, it was quite ridiculous of Madame Pelletier to set her cap at _Javert_. Surely it was obvious that Javert was not the marrying sort? He was far too dedicated to his job to permit such a distraction.

_And he hates this town! He'll be wanting to leave just as soon as he can, he's hardly likely to tie himself to one of the town's widows._

Why was she even interested in Javert?

_It's not as if he's charming. Or friendly._

As for his features, well, Valjean supposed he _was_ remarkably tall and perhaps his dark complexion gave him a slightly striking aspect, but surely none could call him handsome.

He excused himself hurriedly from Madame Pelletier, uncomfortable with his perceived insight into her feelings. He was still ruminating on the strangeness of her choice when he reached his office, having quite forgotten what mayoral task he had set himself for the afternoon.

*********

It seemed that even in his own home, Madeleine could no longer escape from Javert.

As he was eating his breakfast the following morning, he was subjected to a lurid conversation between his cook and the woman who brought the milk each day.

Madeleine was well known for his lenience, so Madame Renault was never too worried about closing the kitchen door fully for her daily gossiping sessions. Today, the topic of conversation was apparently Madame Pelletier.

_“- She's well set for money, it's not as though she has to marry into it.”_

_“Pah. The lieutenant wasn't all that rich. She's able to live, but live well?”_

_“She's not the sort to think of that, Madame P. Bloody strange'un.  She doesn't think with her purse strings. Nor her head, neither.”_

_“No. She thinks with her thighs, that one.”_

Madame Renault gave a breathless laugh.

_“Too right. She'd rather have that strapping gitan between her sheets than some wealthy old codger.”_

_“Probably his foreign looks excite her!”_

_“Lucky mongrel, isn't he? Little enough effort on his part, and he's got hisself a ticket into polite society, along with a wife who'll willingly spread her legs for him. We might even get a smile out of him.”_

_“Don't reckon he knows how. He has got nice broad shoulders, though... And he did for that gang of robbers alright.”_

_“Yeah, I bet old Maberly'd be up for it if she was twenty years younger, the way she’s been going on! You've heard what they say about them gypsy men in the bedroom?”_

_“What, that they... Yes, I did hear that... Perhaps he doesn't need to smile after all!”_

The two women laughed raucously.

Meanwhile, Valjean's fork was shaking, halfway between his plate and his lips. He was furious beyond the capacity for rational thought.

How _dare_ they…

How _dare_ these women assume that Javert would marry Madame Pelletier just so he would be accepted into Montreuil-sur-mer society? How little they understood him! Anyway, Javert was hardly a man for romance of any kind. Even if she was an attractive sort of woman and quite... amorous...

 _Even if he was to marry her, it would not be out of any dishonourable intention... Securing a place in society indeed..._ The two women seemed to think Javert a man cut from common cloth, a man who could be swayed by trivial considerations and carnal desires...

Why, only yesterday, when Madeleine had interrupted the pair of them speaking in the street, Javert had seemed more than relieved to escape the amiable widow. Surely then he must be unhappy with the woman's attentions?

When it came to marriage, Valjean instinctively felt that he and Javert were birds of a feather.

Neither would entertain the notion.

Javert, _marry_ Madame Pelletier? It was preposterous.

“Is Monsieur le Maire not hungry today?”

Valjean jumped in his seat.  He had not heard his cook re-entering the room. She was looking at his mostly untouched breakfast in consternation.  He pushed the plate towards her.

“Not very.” He managed curtly.

Old Renault gave him one of her solicitous looks.

“You're not coming down with something are you, Monsieur le Maire? It's just, your appetite is usually excellent. Your face is flushed... Let me feel your forehead.”

Valjean put his hand up before she could touch him.

“I am well, thank you, Madame. I must go out directly.”

He left the house in a rush of confusion and annoyance and went straight to the factory, where he busied himself helping his workers to unload a cartful of supplies, the manual labour a balm to his ire. As the morning wore on, he realised that he should have spoken up on the spot and chastised the two women for speaking about respected citizens in that shameful manner. He should have been affronted by the uncalled-for slights made against Javert's character – and indeed Madame Pelletier’s - rather than caught up in the idea of him getting married.

He resolved that he would confront his housekeeper regarding her disrespectful comments that evening, though he did not think it was his place to chastise the farmer's wife for joining in.

The morning progressed, and at some length, after pacing his office on the upper floor of the factory planning what words to use in scolding Madame Renault, Monsieur le Maire at last felt prepared to make the short journey to the Town Hall to begin the day's civic duties.

 

*****

“Madame Renault, ah, a moment of your time please… ah.  Madame…  I will thank you not to speak in such a manner as you did this morning.”

Madame Renault, whom Madeleine had never before chastised, blinked up at him in confusion.  “Monsieur le Maire?  I can’t think what you mean?”

“…The…  It was…  When you were, ah, speaking to Madame Allard in the kitchen.  You were both much too loud and… _Ahem_ … The Inspector…”

“You mean… _Javert_?  You mean when we was talking about Madame P. and Javert?”

“ _Inspector_ Javert.  And Madame Pelletier…  Are respected citizens.  You should not…”

“We were only sayin’ what the whole town’s been sayin’!  That she’s taken a fancy to him…”

“Madame…  You will not.  In this house…  You mustn’t…  Madame, I beg you not to speak so disrespectfully of citizens of the town.  And, in this house…  I…  I…”

At length, Renault gave him a soft, considered look that made him feel even more uncomfortable.  “Very good Monsieur le Maire, I won’t speak so again, sir.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

Valjean fled to his bedchamber, waiting until the door was closed before shuddering.  He caught sight of himself in the small glass mounted near his mantel piece and his mouth dropped open in alarm at the hue of his face. 

He couldn’t help but imagine, as he sank down to sit on his bed, another conversation that might take place tomorrow morning in someone else’s kitchen, likely the Allard’s. 

 _‘He won’t let me talk about anything, you know, anything at all between men and women.’_ Renault might say.  _‘And you should have seen the colour of his face when I spoke of Madame Pelletier and Javert!’_

That was all he could bear to torment himself with. 

There were moments, as Monsieur le Maire, when Valjean felt comfortable in his own skin, settled into the role of a kindly and wise benefactor, useful and respectable.  But there were also moments like this one, when his surface was scratched and he saw himself for what he really was.  An ignorant and unrefined fruit-picker from Faverolles with soil under his fingernails and straw in his hair.  A man who had barely had a childhood, and who’s adulthood had only truly begun in his first few months in Montreuil-sur-Mer.  A man whose knowledge of most matters came from two dozen well-thumbed books. 

Valjean buried his burning face in his hands, and prayed.

 

*****

 

The weeks passed.  Madeleine did not overhear any more gossip from Madame’s Allard and Renault, much to his relief, although the rest of the townsfolk were still vocal about their longing for a bit of scandal.  Madeleine did not see a great deal of the Inspector, and even his nightly bulletins were absent for a few days when Javert had to travel to the Assizes to give the testimony that would finally put the gang of robbers in prison. 

He had received a lengthy report when Javert had returned, naturally.  All four of the gang members were given harsh sentences.  As he read of this, Valjean found he could not feel quite as much of his usual pity for such creatures, not next to his relief that the men who had murdered several people in other towns, all of whom were likely just as harmless as Widow Maberly, would be behind bars instead of on the prowl. 

And he thought then, unwillingly, of Javert’s face.  The way it had looked that night, the blood and the ragged tears in the skin, the yellow bruising that had come up in the days afterwards and lingered, the grit he had picked out of the wounds, the adrenaline that had thickened Javert’s voice when he had said ‘ _They ground my face into Widow Maberly’s front wall a few times_.’

And he wasn’t sorry that the men would be chained.

And he resolved not to think of the attempted robbery anymore.

It would be better after all, he decided, to see less of Javert. 

 

 

*********

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The passive-aggressive exchange of notes intensifies, Valjean circles a little closer to self awareness, and also some accidental flirting occurs.  
> : )

 

 

Building had begun on the small soup canteen outside his factory, and overseeing the construction, as well as to his usual responsibilities at the factory and the town hall was keeping Madeleine as busy as he’d ever been.  He worked from dawn until dusk, spent less time in church, and gave alms to the poor as he made his way around town each day. 

He had no time now to disguise himself in peasant clothing and enter houses to leave alms on the table at night.  Madeleine enjoyed toil, but even he was not completely immune to exhaustion.  Besides, he found that since the upturn in the town’s fortunes precipitated by the opening of the factory, there was less of a need for such methods.  As Mayor, he had realised, there were other ways to ensure the wellbeing of the population, ones that involved less housebreaking and the associated Javert-risk.

Speaking of Javert, Madeleine had sent the handyman from his own factory to scrub the windows of the police post so they might let in more light.  He had also signed a docket for some new chairs and shelves to be made for the office there.  He had passed the docket to Javert’s youngest underling, the private with the short-cropped hair, and discovered that his name was Laurent.  Valjean chastised himself for taking so long to learn this.  There had been a time, after Javert had first arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when Valjean had surreptitiously found out everything there was to find about _all_ of the guards in town.  It would not do to let his vigilance slip, not with Javert’s suspicions so evidently close to the surface.

The following night when young Laurent delivered the Inspector’s bulletin, Valjean was stunned to find the docket he had signed for the police post folded inside the paper.  The bulletin contained a single line -

 

_Not necessary Monsieur le Maire_

 

\- proceeding the Inspector’s customary ink scribble. 

Valjean stared unblinking at the note.

What in God’s name was he to make of this? 

Was this something like the reluctant grimace of Javert’s mouth when Widow Maberly pressed a cake into his hand?  Or was this more like – and here Valjean trembled at the thought – a refusal to take a bribe?

He sat still for several moments, gradually giving himself over to the part of him that was entirely Madeleine.

Madeleine was frustrated. 

He rapped his knuckles sharply on his office window where it overlooked the square, then opened the window to call out Laurent’s name into the night air. 

The young soldier returned to the mayor’s office at once, surprise and worry evident on his face.  Madeleine took pity on the boy. 

“Do not concern yourself, Private Laurent, I merely find that tonight I have a response for the good Inspector.  Please take a seat young man, this will only take me a moment.” 

Laurent blinked wide eyes at him and after a moment’s hesitation made his way to the chair in front of Madeleine’s desk and perched himself gingerly on the edge of it. 

Madeleine swiftly tamped down on the smile that was trying to curl the edges of his lips at the young man’s reticence. 

He pulled a piece of paper towards him and thought for a moment. 

 

_Inspector Javert,_

_Upon visiting the police post recently, I became aware that my predecessor had neglected to provide adequate resources for its upkeep.  This is not a fit state of affairs for a town such as Montreuil-sur-Mer.  I enclose the means with which to adequately repair and furnish the police post, and I ask you to set one of your subordinates to oversee the task.  I also request that you approach me should your keen eyes spot any other resource that the post lacks._

_With my regards,_

_Monsieur le Maire._

 

He folded the docket into his letter and handed it to the waiting Laurent with a kind smile. 

“Thank you for your patience, Private.” 

Laurent snapped to attention in much the same way as Madeleine had seen him do when Javert was present. 

“Of course, Monsieur le Maire.”   He stated in an earnest tone before taking his leave. 

Valjean sank back behind his desk, rubbing at his temples, when the boy had gone. 

_That was too kind._

A real mayor, that is to say, one who was not also an _imposter_ , would surely have responded more sharply to Javert’s impertinence in returning the docket. 

_But then, Javert already knows Madeleine to be too kind…_

_And Madeleine knows Javert to be incapable of grace when accepting kindness._

Circles within circles.  Valjean’s head was beginning to throb.  It was past midnight.  He decided that he would take a small cup of wine before bed tonight. 

He was settling his hat onto his head for the journey home when there was another knock on his door. 

He froze in place.

Laurent entered again, looking tired and thoroughly uncomfortable.  He thrust another note into Madeleine’s hand. 

Valjean did not know whether to laugh or cry.  At least he could feel from the thickness of the paper that his docket was not still inside. 

 

 

_Very well, Monsieur le Maire._

 

 

That was all it said, Javert’s pen had spat tiny splatters of ink around the short sentence. 

Valjean’s hand itched to crumple the note.  Then it itched to send back a folded piece of paper with a small _Thank you, Inspector_ scribbled in the centre.  Or perhaps another docket worth twice as much.

But he thought of poor Laurent, having to come back across the square just so Javert could have the last word, and he relented.  He smoothed the note into place in the second drawer of his desk and then exited the office with Laurent in tow before finally bidding him goodnight. 

 

 

*********

 

Ridiculously brief notes delivered late at night notwithstanding, Madeleine did not converse with Javert in person for a month. 

Somehow this was not the profound relief that it should have been.

When they next encountered one another it was broad daylight, fallen leaves were gusting through the streets, and Javert had once again been accosted by Madame Pelletier.  She appeared to have cornered him at the juncture where the churchyard intersected with the town walls.  Valjean spied them from a distance, easily identified by her tall figure and his taller one.  They were engaged in what seemed a very one-sided conversation.

 _She is reckless to approach him in such a busy thoroughfare_ , Valjean thought _.  Unless it is a matter of police business, but no… How could she not be aware of the talk around town?  She cannot truly still believe she stands a chance with him._  

He felt a surge of pity for both of them, and an odd tightness that twisted in his abdomen as he walked.  

Valjean had been headed in to the church, so he was forced to get a little closer to where the pair were standing before veering off to the left. 

Javert’s head snapped up suddenly and his eyes locked on Madeleine as though he was a lifeline.  It might have been amusing if the expression wasn’t so terrifyingly close to the one Javert wore in the dreams Valjean had where he came to arrest him.  

“Monsieur le Maire!”  Javert called out in a tense voice.  “I must speak with you… regarding the police post.” 

Valjean halted halfway through the church gates.  He was remembering _‘Not necessary, Monsieur le Maire’_ and half wanting to continue into the church, pretending not to have heard the Inspector. 

Instead he turned slowly, plastering a mild expression onto his face.  “Very well Javert.  You may have a moment.”

Valjean risked a glance at Madame Pelletier and the look she gave him made him shrink a little into his collar.  He gave her Madeleine’s kindest smile, and silently willed her to give up on pursuing Javert.  Poor woman. 

Madame Pelletier turned on her heel and left them with a curt “Good day Inspector, Monsieur le Maire,” her handsome chin held high in the air. 

Valjean hesitantly turned to meet Javert’s eyes.  Previously he had enjoyed from afar the awkward grimaces that Javert had worn in lieu of gratitude – and not for the kindest of reasons – but he had never before had such an expression turned on him.  He found it oddly affecting.   

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire…  I…”

“Come, Inspector…  You need not pretend to want to make some recommendation about the police post to me, I understand.”  Valjean had not thought he had it in him to make such a bold statement, but there it was, he had said it. 

Javert’s eyelids drooped closed, his face flushed and contorted.  His head jerked convulsively in the direction that Madame Pelletier had gone and then the grimace was back fiercer than ever. 

“I have never had such a thing happen to me before.”  Javert admitted tightly.  “A face such as this one has always been more than enough to ward off…  I confess I am at a loss.” 

Valjean stared at the man in wonder that he would respond to him so candidly.  He remembered how _certain_ he had been that Javert would not welcome the widow’s advances, and the relief that he had read the man correctly was almost overwhelming.  A bark of laughter crept out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Instead of the scowl he had expected, Javert’s eyes gave a sudden crinkle at the corners as if he wanted to laugh too.  Then he immediately clenched his jaw and his expression returned to his standard forbidding frown. 

But Valjean had seen.  He had seen what the man looked like when he almost laughed. 

“It is not such a bad face.”  He surprised himself by saying, and at the curious flit of Javert’s dark eyes he cleared his throat and stared a up at a tree covered in rust coloured leaves until he had composed himself again.  “Ah, besides, the Madame is a sensible woman, she…”

“So I had believed too until this lapse in judgement.”  Javert interrupted, now utterly sombre. 

Madeleine’s lips twitched involuntarily at the corners.  “I am sure this will all be forgotten soon.”  He stated with all the authority he could muster. 

Javert’s face had gradually returned to its normal colour.  “I am sorry for taking up your time with such a trifle, Monsieur le Maire.  I will let you get on.” 

The taller man tipped his hat slightly before striding off.

Valjean watched him go for a moment before walking into church and sitting down on his usual pew to pray.  His hands shook a little as he pressed them together. 

He wasn’t at all sure what he felt. 

 

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally figured out where this story is going and what it is in fact all about. Hope people are liking the direction it is headed in. : )


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert twist slightly closer together as they spend a surprising ammount of time in friendly banter for mortal enemies. This brings it's own risks.  
> : )

 

Madeleine’s factory workers were vocal about their opinion that there should be some sort of fanfare made upon the opening of the new soup canteen.  Madeleine had never given in to solicitations from the upper echelons of Montreuil-sur-Mer society in all his time here.  But his factory workers were of a different class entirely.  They still called him ‘Pere Madeleine’, and looked at him with undisguised affection.  They worked hard to earn their living wages and they obeyed his rules.  They were honest, humble people and Madeleine was fond of them. 

So he gave some consideration to how he might be able to give them the small celebration they wanted. 

He did not hold with the drinking of spirits for non-medicinal purposes as he believed such behaviour encouraged backsliding.  But after some thought, he decided that a small cup of watered wine per worker, served hot now that the days were growing colder, would be a harmless gesture of goodwill.  He would hold the celebration at closing time one evening and allow the workers to invite their children to meet them at the gates – most of them lived within spitting distance of the factory anyway.  The children would be served hot cocoa and given sweets.  It would only be a small gesture, but he did not doubt it would give them pleasure. 

It had been too long since Madeleine allowed himself the pleasure of a walk in the countryside, and he indulged himself in a long ramble one afternoon before the sun began to set.  He found that there was nothing like walking to help him clear his head.  He stopped at his usual haunts and enquired after the wellbeing of the peasants who worked the land there.  The local peasants were always more than happy to see Madeleine.  They saw him as one of their own, and they were proud that he had risen to become Mayor.  At a tiny cottage half hidden by a copse of trees he came upon an elderly man who had been a joiner before his knees had gone bad, and the two of them passed the time of day while Madeleine ascertained if the fellow had all that he needed for a comfortable life.  An idea came to him as he looked around the man’s small dwelling and took in the woodcuttings that decorated it.  The man carved as a hobby, and carving could be done almost entirely while sitting down.  How fitting that the man should be paid for his industry. 

Before leaving to continue his walk, Madeleine had secured the services of the old man, with assistance from his son in law, to fashion a quantity of small toys to be distributed at the upcoming celebration. 

 

*********

The sun was going down, and staining everything a bright orange colour, at factory closing time on the night the soup canteen opened for the first time.  Madeleine left the running of the canteen to the four redoubtable older women who he’d chosen for the project for their good sense and simple home cooking skills.  He had employed two boys, aged fourteen and fifteen, from the poorest families left in Montreuil-sur-Mer, as helpers for the old women. 

The women hummed and sang and laughed along with one another as they stirred the enormous pans of savoury broth.  The two boys were jabbering away to each other as they lugged around sacks of vegetables.  Twice already Madeleine had left the spot by the factory gates, where he had taken to reservedly standing, in order to lift sacks of potatoes that were too heavy for the lads.  Perhaps he should have hired bigger boys, but surely their muscles would grow as they got used to the work. 

The turnout to the celebration was greater than he had expected.  There were many more in the crowd than worked for him.  Of course, the respectable denizens of the high-town would not deign to appear at such an event, but it seemed that all of the low-town poor of Montreuil-sur-Mer had turned out. 

Madeleine was glad that he had instructed the women to make such huge quantities of soup.  Feeding hungry mouths was what the canteen was designed for, after all. 

He watched from his position at the edge of the throng and felt quietly pleased with how the evening had turned out.  He had overheard a few niggling voices squabbling over the ‘ _thimblefuls_ ’ of wine he had allocated, but he did not concern himself with this nearly so much as the faces of the children in the crowd.  Children were so easily pleased.  That always filled Madeleine with a kind of wonder.  The hot drinks and sweets for the children were plentiful, and he had had a surplus of wooden toys made so there was enough to go around.  A wandering musician had set himself up in the centre of the crowd and was playing the fiddle as people tossed centimes his way.

Madeleine never basked in any of his good deeds, but for this brief moment, listening to the sound of the music and the laughter of the children, he allowed himself to feel content with the realisation of one of his plans. 

There was a raucous laugh from one of the old women as the boys dropped another sack of potatoes, and Madeleine smiled benignly as he went to help them yet again.  He lifted the sack over his head to pass it up through the hatch of the canteen and yelped in shock when an unnoticed tear in the sackcloth showered half a dozen potatoes onto his head.  They bounced off harmlessly and fell whooshing past his ears. 

There was a loud snort somewhere behind him that made a tingle run up from the base of Valjean’s spine to the nape of his neck, and he straightened up and turned around, brushing soil from his hair.

By the time he looked upon Javert the man’s face was as straight and stern as if it had been hewn from stone, and Valjean began to think he had imagined the sound of a laugh. 

“Good evening, Inspector.”  He said, quickly passing his hand through his hair again for stray dirt, his face warm. 

“Monsieur le Maire.”

Javert bent at the middle suddenly in what Valjean at first thought might have been an extremely ostentatious bow, but then he came up holding two potatoes in one large hand and Valjean couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Thank you, Inspector.  I’ll have to be more careful.”

“Or you could leave the task to the youths you employed to do it.” The Inspector opined drily.

Valjean laughed again.  One of the old women in the canteen glanced at him curiously, so perhaps he had not sounded much like Madeleine.  It was beginning to unnerve Valjean how easily Javert could turn him into this creature who laughed so freely.

He reached out to take the potatoes from Javert’s hand.  The sensation as his calloused fingertips brushed the man’s rough palm was every bit as terrifying as it had been when they had shaken hands that first day when Javert came to town. 

“’Ere.  For the Inspector.”  The most wizened of the cooks was holding out a steaming cup of what smelled like cocoa.  “Old Widow Maberly’s a friend of mine.” 

Javert’s grimace was in full force again, so Valjean thanked the woman for him, and passed her the potatoes he had taken from Javert’s hand in exchange for the cup. 

“Just _take_ it.”  He whispered firmly to Javert as he handed the drink to him, enduring another terrible pass of the broad fingers against his own. 

Javert took the cup with a long-suffering expression, though he did not drink from it.  He tilted his hat at Valjean and excused himself, heading off into the crowd, presumably to make his rounds.  His hat remained visible above all the other heads. 

Looking after him, Valjean wondered why the Inspector had chosen to approach him at all.  

 

*********

It took longer than Madeleine had expected, for the celebration outside the factory to die down.  After everything was cleared away and his workers had gone home, he made his way to the mayor’s office to start his work for the evening. 

Madeleine stayed at his office only a little longer once he had received Javert’s bulletin – all was apparently well, again – and locked up as the church tower was striking 11 o clock. 

He hummed to himself a little at first as he made his way through the quiet streets.  Quiet at first at least, but soon he heard raucous shouts and laughter coming from a side street, and he changed his course to head down it in his curiosity.  He came upon three small boys who were for some reason out of their beds.  They seemed to be playing with one of the spinning tops that the old woodcutter had made and Madeleine had distributed earlier in the evening. 

The three boys were laughing and arguing and shushing each other loudly as they played at their game in the faint glow of a lamp, and they did not notice Madeleine’s approach. 

When he was almost on top of them, the smallest boy spotted him and cried out in alarm, which made the other two shriek as well. 

They were all stumbling away from him in fright when one of the boys recognised him. 

“Hold on Jacques!  Hold on Louis!  It’s only kind old Pere Madeleine! He gave us the toys.” The child stood still facing Madeleine and in a moment the other two had halted their flight and come to stand with him.

“Sorry Monsieur, but we thought you was _Javert_ coming to get us.”  It was the tallest of the boys who said this, and as he said the name _Javert_ his little face contorted into a snarl which was a not half bad impression. 

The middle boy with the shock of red hair sidled forwards and snatched up the spinning top from where the three had left it in their haste. 

Madeleine struggled to put a little severity into his own voice as he addressed them.  “And so Javert _should_ come and get you, up out of bed in the streets at this hour of night!  Why, surely your mothers will be worried _sick_ about where you are!  I should fetch Javert to take you home at once!”

The smallest boy took a few steps closer to Madeleine and peered up at him with huge eyes. 

“Oh, please Monsieur, don’t tell Javert on us!  I don’t like him!  He pulls the meanest faces!”

“And my father says he’s a _gypsy_.” Put in the redhead, with the air that he had no idea what the word meant. 

Madeleine gave an exaggerated tut.  “That’s a fine way to talk about the good Inspector.  He’s a very brave man, you know.  He… he saves old women.  And he keeps us all safe.  He has to wear mean faces so that the bad men are afraid of him.”

Three childish faces blinked up at him, utterly nonplussed.  Madeleine gave in to his desperate urge to smile.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out three coins, giving them one each. 

“Thanks!” Grinned the tall one. 

“And thanks for the toys!” Spoke up the redhead, cradling the spinning top fondly. 

“Now go home to your mothers _this instant_ , and don’t _ever_ stay out this late again!”  He said, waggling his finger at the trio.

Valjean had a warning prickling sensation down the back of his neck at this point, so he had a good idea of what might be about to happen, although the three boys did not. 

“I’d say that was a _very_ good idea.” A deep voice intoned from the darkness. 

A long shadow broke away from what had appeared to be the corner of a house and took a few steps in their direction.  

As one, the three boys screamed and bolted as fast as their little legs would carry them. 

The shadow walked up to Valjean. 

“Was that really necessary?”  Valjean attempted to speak in Madeleine’s sternest tone, but he found he could not get to the end of the sentence without dissolving into laughter.  He hid his face in his hands for a moment until he had control of himself. 

“Which lesson do you believe they are more likely to learn, Monsieur le Maire, yours or mine?”  Javert asked him, teeth glinting in the lamplight. 

“Come Javert, lessons can be taught without fear, even to mischievous little boys.” 

Javert scoffed.  “It is right that those boys should fear me.  The fear will keep them honest as they grow up, and teach them discipline.  You do them no favours trying to make me seem…”  Javert trailed off, apparently having no words for how Madeleine had made him seem. 

 _Oh god, what did I say about him?_   Valjean tried to remember, his palms going sweaty at the thought of Javert overhearing. 

“Now, Javert.”  He began, to ward off his embarrassment.  “Perhaps it is right that the boys should fear the law.  But it does not necessarily follow that they should fear _you_ , as a man.”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Maire, but it _does_ follow.”

“Now, Javert…”

“Did you give those boys a _sous_ each?”

Valjean snapped his mouth shut. 

Javert scoffed again.  “Yes, they will learn your lesson well with a sous in their pocket.”

 _Now he will accuse me of bribing the children to get them to like him_.

But instead, Javert scoffed for the third time, and this time it was a true, bark-like laugh, strange in the night air.  “Why, those three aren’t even poor.  If those boys had been from _really_ poor families like the ones on rue Rivière or rue de L'eau, I might have understood your-” Javert appeared to realise what he was saying and who he was saying it to all at once and he shut his mouth with an audible _‘clack’_.

It was Valjean’s turn to laugh richly once again at this strange back and forth they were engaged in. 

Javert was chagrined.  “Come now, you must know that I was certainly not suggesting you give alms down those streets…  For goodness sake - …”

But here came the crux of it all.  After the exasperated ‘for goodness sake’, Javert’s lips visibly begin to form a name.  The two men were stood very close to each other at this moment, so it was painfully clear to see that the name Javert had been about to speak had begun with a ‘V’ and not an ‘M’.

The almost _friendly_ disagreement they’d been having came crashing down around their ears. 

If it hadn’t been obvious to him already that Javert had been about to refer to him by his true name, Valjean would certainly have known it by the wide-eyed expression of alarm that had now seized Javert’s features. 

Valjean had no idea what his own face was doing.  He could feel nothing past the choking beat of his heart in his throat. 

“Well, I must be going, goodnight Inspector.” Was spoken, but how it got past his lips Valjean would never know.  He turned on his heel and made his way home in a daze.

Every step he took was agony, because he could feel Javert watching him.  Every when he was around the corner, even when he was out of sight, even when he was streets away, he could feel Javert watching him. 

His house was empty and dark, and he barred his front door behind him with trembling fingers.  The legs that took him up his dark stairway shook.  Not until he reached his bedchamber and had locked the door did he even try to find a candle.  It took him three attempts to light it, fumbling in the darkness. 

There was no way he could qualify what he felt, there was no way he could comfort himself. 

He knew what he had seen, and it had been Javert’s lips stretched around his true name, about to speak it in an exasperated tone.  Almost a familiar tone.  Almost the tone an old friend might use. 

All Valjean’s long life, no one had ever spoken to him in that tone. 

It had been so close to slipping out.   

And yet, if Javert _had_ spoken that name out loud…

A violent shudder passed through Valjean. 

Then there would be no going back. 

Perhaps even now it was too late. 

Perhaps even now there was no going back. 

When he could trust his hands again, he placed a lit candle into each of the Bishops’ candlesticks and sank to his knees before the mantelpiece as a supplicant. 

He had been expecting the usual tears, but somehow they did not come. 

He merely knelt on the floor between the candlesticks with his head bowed and his hands pressed together.

It did nothing to stop the racing of his thoughts. 

After at least an hour his heart began to slow and his breathing steadied. 

He asked himself the only real question there was.  He asked himself if he should pack a bag. 

But before the giant machine of thoughts and deeds than he had planned for for so long could come whirring into life, he came abruptly to his decision. 

_This changes nothing._

_This changes nothing at all._

_How long now have I been convinced that Javert knew me for who I really was?  And still I stayed._

_How long have I been waiting for him to find his proof?  And still I have stayed._

_He knows my true identity, of that there can be no doubt.  But he has no way to prove who I am, so he keeps it to himself._

_It changes nothing that he very nearly called me by the name we both know to be mine._

_Even though it feels like it changes everything, it changes nothing._

Eventually, exhausted, Valjean took a drink of water and got into bed.  His thoughts still raced and he had little hope of sleep. 

 _But nothing has changed._  He told himself. 

 

**  
**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not gonna lie guys, I'm excited to see what you think of this one...)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In turmoil, Valjean begins to realise his feelings are not quite what he had thought. He reacts in the measured and rational manner that we've come to expect from him.  
> ; )

 

He woke with a start and a choked off cry.  

The first shards of sunlight were just beginning to claw their way over the horizon.

Valjean had slept for no more than two hours.

It had not been a restful sleep.  He had been dreaming of Toulon again.  The crawling, suffocating nights inside the cells.  And Javert, always Javert.  His heartrate attested to that. 

He tried to recall fragments of the tail-end of his dream.  He thought it might have been a memory.  Or perhaps just some fanciful imagining born out of panic. 

Valjean began to move his legs and went to throw off his blankets.

And stopped.

His mind was blank for a moment as he clutched the bedclothes convulsively. 

What was…

And then he remembered.  And he gasped aloud and began to shudder. 

His thighs and… between his legs. 

Covered.  Sticky.  _Wet._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_I am too old.  I am…_

Valjean covered his face with both hands, half groaning and half sobbing. 

_No. Not this. Please. Not this.  Not again._

He was 53 – no, 54 – _54_ years old.  He was too old.

He had not even put a hand on himself since he had come to Montreuil-sur-Mer.  He had left the part of himself that did that behind.  Back with the lash and the double chains and the filth and the squalor.

He had thought…

He had believed that God had given him a gift. 

Surely, surely, God had taken away that urge to touch himself.  He hadn’t even had to ask for it.   

It had been a reward, a sign that he was on a holy path, a righteous path…

Valjean had never had anything more than his own hand for pleasure.  And even that was enough to disgust him.  He had indulged in it in Toulon, because they all had, they’d had nothing else to do.

 _I have never even_ looked _at a woman. Not like that. Never in all my life.  I…_

An image from his dream accosted him mercilessly. 

It wasn’t a memory after all.  Only a fragment of another inmate’s fantasy that he had overheard once.  Twisted and made flesh. 

Valjean choked on a sob and shoved his fist into his mouth. 

That was worse again.  So much worse. 

He leapt from his bed and poured the contents of his water jug into his washing bowl. 

Tearing off his drawers and flinging them aside, he scrubbed at himself with rough hands and frigid water.  The treacherous flesh between his thighs was warm and soft and achingly sensitive and he brutalised it with his washing, furious with himself and everything else.

When he was tolerably clean and dry and had dressed himself immaculately in the clothes of a better man, he scoured the room with his eyes for all the evidence. 

He bundled the soiled sheets from his bed up with his drawers, angrier than he’d ever been, and shoved them in a cloth sack. 

Valjean left his house with the streets only just emerging from darkness and ploughed his way into the woods on the outskirts of town, avoiding all his well-trodden paths.  Heading for the densest and most secluded spot he could find, the cloth sack burning a hole through his back.

He grabbed a large stick from the undergrowth and began to dig. 

 

*********

 

** Toulon **

In the mind of a wretched man all ills may spring from the same source and lead to the same end.

After spending the 27 hellish days in the stinking cart that had brought him to deepest, darkest Toulon, the young man known as Jean Valjean was transfigured. No longer the snivelling, weeping creature who had been riveted into his iron collar, he had fashioned a shell for himself out of bitterness during that unspeakable journey.

He wore the shell as he was branded 24601, he wore it as he put on his red smock, he wore it as he shuffled dry-eyed through the gates.

In all his nineteen years in Toulon he would never take it off. The shell only grew more impenetrable. As hardship and indignity after hardship and indignity were heaped on him he became immune to them. No suffering was too great for Valjean to bear with silent indifference. It all served to stoke the great flame of hatred that had been lit in his stomach the day he had arrived at that accursed place.

The reader is already aware that Valjean used the endless lonely hours of his imprisonment to ruminate on the unfairness and injustice of his truncated life.

One of the cruellest ironies that seared him during those first few years was the thought of the virtuous, chaste life he had lead before his imprisonment.  Before his crime. 

Listening to the other prisoners talk – which was unavoidable - Valjean could not help but perceive that he alone in the entire prison had not in some way enjoyed the touch of a woman.

(It did not occur to young Valjean that some of the other inmates might be exaggerating their experiences).

Many years ago, before his brother-in-law had died, a young girl who was working in the orchard with him had kissed him - quite unexpectedly - one day. The press of their mouths had surprised and touched the youthful Valjean, and over the following week the girl had smiled at him and he'd had the vaguest notion of courting her.

But Jean Valjean had been ashamed of the house he lived in, ashamed of his sister and her seven raggedy, uncouth children, ashamed of his poverty.  How on Earth was he to provide for a wife when he could barely keep himself?  Above all, he had been conscious of his own lack of refinement. Even among the working people of Faverolles, the Valjean’s had been notably of the lowest rank – the poorest, the scruffiest, the dirtiest.

And so, bitterly aware of his own short-comings and seeing no way to remedy them, Valjean had acted surly and indifferent around the girl.  She had soon found a new beau upon whom to bestow her surprising kisses, and within the blink of an eye she was married to the lad.  Gone from Valjean's reach before he could even decide if he wanted her.

Now, sat in his foetid cell in this damp, foul dungeon of a place, Valjean felt himself robbed of whatever it was the other inmates spoke of in hushed tones with glinting eyes and laughter in their voices.

What use that lonely, virtuous youth?

If he was bound to come to this end then why _oh why_ had he not enjoyed his freedom, seized his youth, done something to truly deserve imprisonment?!

As he listened to the rustling noises of his cell mates at night, heard their heavy breathing and the movement of their hands as they brought themselves off, Valjean would turn his face to the wall and grit his teeth and turn inside-out with disgust at himself when his body betrayed him and his cock swelled. He would crush the heel of his palm roughly into the crotch of his breeches and his hips would rut in tight circles. And he would pant softly and bite down on his lower lip, and he would whine quietly as his seed rushed out of him to soil his already filthy clothes...

This nightly emission repulsed and shamed him, leaving him profoundly unsatisfied, yet somehow he was incapable of resisting it.

Self-abuse was the favourite pastime by night in Toulon. It was one of the few things the gourganes could not take from you – although Valjean had heard that they could beat you in ways that made it impossible.

After he had been in Toulon for five years and his first foolhardy escape attempt was behind him, Valjean had become as brazen about self-abuse as any other inmate. No longer bothering to hide, he would free his cock from his breeches each night and stroke himself without shame until his seed spilled over his hand.

Valjean's growing reputation for immense strength, as well as his somewhat forbidding outward appearance, saved him from the attentions of the kinds of predators who abound in prisons. Nevertheless, he often shared a cell with inmates who seemed to have left their aversion to being preyed upon far behind them. Sometimes he would hear his cell-mates rutting and panting together in the night.  He ignored this, much as he tended to ignore everything about the other prisoners when he could manage it.  He never had much reason to speak with other cons unless he was planning an escape.

Shortly after Valjean's second escape attempt, a new guard was seen around the Bagne.

Of course, there was a constant turnover of guards.  But this one was never going to be just another face. 

A lanky teen who already towered above most of the inmates, with brown skin, unruly black hair, a stern brow and a prominent, masculine jaw, he stood out.  It was the habit of the galériens to allocate a derogatory nickname to each guard.  Unimaginatively, the new guard was immediately christened 'The Gypsy'. 

A gitan on the other side of the bars for a change was something of a novelty to the denziens of Toulon.

Valjean remembered how much the whole village had hated the gypsies, back in Faverolles. The children used to take it in turns to throw rocks at the wagons as they passed through town, often encouraged by their parents.  It seemed that a lot of the inmates had grown up with similar experiences.

And not just the inmates.  Most of The Gypsy’s fellow guards hated him more than the prisoners did.  They were often overheard using their own nicknames for him.  Mongrel.  Whoreson.  Bastard.  Heathen.

The Gypsy stood out in other ways too.  He was clever and he was quick.  He did not fall into the slovenly or sadistic ways of most of the other guards, but instead set his own standards.  At that time, the Gypsy had still been skinnier than half of the inmates and his face had retained some of its boyishness.  Between this and his ridiculous insistence upon adherence to the penal code, he should have lent himself to mockery. 

Instead he was more terrifying than most. 

His skill and accuracy with his cudgel was unparalleled, and he made a few short, savage demonstrations with it to those who tested him in his first few weeks that were still remembered years later by all who had witnessed them.  He would wade into fights and separate inmates with no thought for his personal safety.  He was strong, ruthless, and agile. 

After The Gypsy had been at Toulon for a few months he no longer needed to make any demonstrations, and the inmates no longer called him that.  His name was Javert, and it had become its own adjective, encapsulating all of their fear and resentment.

Knowing to the letter exactly what they would get if they crossed him, the inmates now treated the young guard with a wary respect.

There was no pity in him. Javert believed that all the inmates deserved to be punished harshly and at length for their transgressions, and would explain precisely why quoting articles of law at any given moment.

Yet an inmate will soon learn that there is a class of prison guard who will take all of his frustration at his own miserable existence out on them.

Javert was not one such. 

Jean Valjean bore the same utter contempt for Javert as he did for all the guards, and their paths rarely crossed.

*********

It happened that one rare, excruciatingly cold night some years after Javert's arrival, Valjean was huddled on his sparse mat upon the cell floor attempting sleep. He was being repeatedly thwarted in this attempt by two of the cons sharing his cell, who were conversing in tones that were simply not hushed enough.

“You don't need 'em to look feminine. That way you're just pretendin' they're a woman.”

“That's the whole point of it.”

“No, no. Then you're missing somethin'. There's more to it than that. Look at Javert...”

“Javert!”

“Shhhhhhh... Yes, Javert. There's not much girly about him, is there? He's angular. Hard. But you can't deny...”

“I bloody well can deny it, you’re sick in the head!”

“No, no, I'm right. Think about it for a minute. So young and proud. Just think about the way he stands there, upright and rigid. Like a statue. You can't say you wouldn't like to be the one to crack him.  Can you imagine stripping that uniform off him? You'd have to fight him for it tooth and nail. Untying his hair... Running your hands over his long limbs? Putting your tongue on him 'til he screamed? Then thrusting into him... Having that power over him, the jumped-up little gutter-snipe...”

Both sods were breathing heavily now and rustling up against each other.

“Alright, alright, I… sup-pose...” Panted the sceptical man as they moved beyond speaking and on to quieter, hastier touch.

Valjean hated them with a vigour it would be hard to describe, except to say that his current trembling had nothing to do with the chill.

He had no true friends amongst the inmates, but he found these sorts of openly lascivious sodomites particularly repulsive, the disgust crawling its way over every inch of his sore and weathered skin.

He could barely sleep at all that night, he felt so enraged by what he'd overheard.

*********

The next time he saw Javert was in line at the hulks the next day.  He had grown a head taller in the years he had been at Toulon, and his frame had broadened and thickened with muscle. 

Valjean was _furious_ with him for inspiring the previous nights’ filth.

For a few days, he couldn't so much as glance at the young guard without hearing some snippet or other of the sordid fantasies of those two vile sods in his head. 

This had mortified Valjean in a way few things still had the power to.

And he _hated_.

 

 

*********

He finished burying the shameful evidence of his… _emission,_ and spat on the misshapen lump of earth before covering it over with leaves and twigs.

This done, he strode briskly back to his house in the low-town and scoured his room from top to bottom once again before remaking the bed with fresh sheets. 

Valjean then stood in his kitchen waiting for Madame Renault to arrive for the morning.  When she finally did, he bid her good morning and left for the day at once, unable to even have her look him in the eyes. 

He practically ran to the church, and went straight to his knees before the altar. 

He begged forgiveness and he begged mercy, and he begged that the tarnish would be taken from him again so that he could live the chaste and useful life he was meant to live. 

Distantly, at the very back of his mind, there was a small voice whispering. 

It said that this was all the fault of that vengeful demon Javert. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating changing to NC17 from now on for increase of sexual themes. : )
> 
> ( _Gourgane_ is French for prison guard, _Galerien_ is French for galley slave, _Gitan_ is French for Gypsy. Behold the power of Google.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean struggles to come to terms with his feelings.  
> (Continues directly from where the last chapter left off.)

Valjean remained on his knees in prayer until gone midday. 

He had lost sensation in his lower limbs and had to be helped up by the cure, an intervention that he forced himself to accept with Madeleine’s good grace. 

He walked stiffly to the door of the church and stood there steeling himself to begin the journey to the factory, planning his route and attempting to prepare himself for whoever he might bump into along the way. 

Without doubt, this was too much for him.  This was by far the worst day he had yet had on taking up residence in Montreuil-sur-Mer.  It even surpassed the day that Javert had first arrived. 

 _Javert_.

Quite apart from Valjean’s distress this morning and any part the Inspector might have played in it, last night, Javert had almost slipped up and called him by his real name. _Without proof_.

To completely avoid Javert for as long as possible was now his priority.

Actually, when had that even _stopped_ being his priority?

Avoidance was the only way to survive. 

“Are you quite well, Monsieur le Maire?”  Queried the cure sincerely. 

Valjean started and wondered how long he’d been standing in the church doorway.

“I am well Monsieur, a little tired after the celebration at the factory last night, but well nonetheless.  Farewell to you my good man.”

He took a deep breath and stepped through the door into bright daylight. 

The thoroughfare was nigh on deserted.  Offering a silent prayer of thanks, Valjean made excellent time to his factory, thinking all the way about what excuse he was going to give his foreman for his morning absence. 

 

*********

 

That Valjean made it through the remainder of the day without seeing Javert at all, he attributed entirely to the grace of God.  During the time he spent at the factory, he was uncharacteristically short with his workers.  While at the Mayor’s office, he accomplished nothing but staring in to space. 

His bulletin for the day was thus;

 

_Monsieur le Maire,_

_One dock worker confined to cell for extreme public drunkenness.  That is all._

_Inspector J– (scribble)._

 

Valjean almost ripped the paper in his haste to shove it into his desk drawer and away from his person. 

He scurried home after midnight via a circuitous route he had not taken in years.  At one point during his journey, he was seized all over with the feeling of being watched and he turned around in mute horror only to be confronted with the suspicious glare of a stray cat feeding itself on scraps in the gutter.  Valjean was in such a state by this stage he couldn’t even laugh at himself.

He raced home and shut himself up in his bedroom with a cup of wine, brooding by the light of his candlesticks. 

 _This is not fair,_ was all he could think for a long time. 

He had been desperate to avoid Javert all day, he knew very well that he would not be able to bear to see the man.  And the danger of having the man so near was clearer to him now than it had been in some time. 

So why this absurd deflated feeling?

Valjean’s hands fumbled to pick up his bible and he opened it to several passages he already knew well and reread them. 

His mind did not go willingly to the task, for once. 

He continually heard the voice of Madame Renault in his head, saying of Madame Pelletier _‘_ She’s taken a fancy to Javert. _’_

_And it would appear that I have as well._

The thought was unbidden and Valjean nearly dropped his bible in distress. 

Shuddering, he made himself read the passage he was on again.

_This is absurd._

_This is too absurd to be real._

_It’s like a dream._  

But then he remembered wisps of his previous night’s dream.  This time, he did drop the bible.

He put his face into his hands and groaned in utter dismay. 

_This is not fair._

_I had no idea that this was happening, that this could happen, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t realise…_

_He’s not even… He’s not…_

_Wait, did I tell him that I liked his face?  More or less?  Oh God…_

He groaned again, louder, muffling himself with his palms. 

_And I do like it._

“No.”  He said aloud, and found himself standing up. 

Valjean blinked down at the bible, fallen open on the floor in front of the fireplace.  He slowly looked up at the silver candlesticks lighting the room.

_It is not against the laws of man, but it is against the laws of God.  And the bishop bought my soul, all those years ago.  This is just another test that God has placed in my way.  He wishes to teach me humility.  I was wrong to think myself holier than others.  I am just a man, I have the same frailties and, and base desires… as any other…_

_If I do not act on this.  If I do not think on this… absurdity.  Then I am not breaking God’s law._

_I will spend my time in prayer and fill my days with good works and this will pass._

_He is very diligent.  With luck, he will be promoted and transferred to a bigger town or a city before long.  He will be gone from my life.  He will never know that I…_

There was a terrible clench of fear in Valjean’s chest.  _He can never know, he must never suspect._

_He…  He couldn’t have worked it out already...  Could he?_

_But_ I _didn’t even know about it…_

In Toulon, the other Guards had sometimes called Javert a heathen.  Perhaps the man did not believe in God at all.  Certainly, he never attended church.

 _It would be just like him to be a heathen,_ Valjean thought with sudden spite, _or perhaps he prays to some strange arcane Gods_.  _Strange creature that he is_.  _Damn him!  He has ensnared me like this by design –_

He could not quite bring himself to finish the thought. 

_I know him._

Here was the truth.  Valjean did know him.  As well as he had ever known any man.  And Javert was not bad or wicked.  He had no sorcery or witchcraft. 

_He is just a man, too.  Like me._

A sudden idea, quick as a spark, flitted across Valjean’s tormented mind.  He stamped on it as swiftly as he could, but by then it was no use. 

_Perhaps he is like me in this as well…_

This was the cruellest and most terrible thing that his own mind had yet done to Valjean.  The momentary flicker of hope undid all his careful reasoning, and was enough to turn his stomach sour.

 

*********

 

It was mostly the leftover exhaustion from the previous night that finally allowed Valjean to fall into the deep sleep of the damned. 

He was blessed with around four sorely needed hours, which was, at least, a slight improvement. 

The relief of waking without a sticky damp patch in his lap was short lived. 

With an awful resigned sort of horror, Valjean stared down his body in the morning light and moaned in defeat as he let his head drop back down into the indent on his pillow. 

He breathed in and out through his nose and tried to think his way through the shame and disgust. 

There were ways around this.  Practically.  There had to be.

He could make this problem go away and then go to church and pray for an hour or two before starting the day’s work. 

All was not lost. 

Valjean allowed his eyes to peel open a crack and he peered at his dresser across the room and the water jug that he kept there.  The water was always blisteringly cold by morning time and it would do the trick…

He began to sit up, only to groan in dismay and throw himself back in realisation.

In his turmoil yesterday evening he had forgotten to refill the jug before bed.  He had used all the water up scrubbing away the evidence of his emission yesterday morning.  And Renault had given up on filling his jug years ago after he had repeatedly assured her that it was one of those household tasks he preferred to do for himself. 

He let his head fall down hard onto the pillow several more times, growling at himself. 

Well, if he got up and dressed himself, the exposure to the cold air of the room would surely be effective, as long as he ignored… _it._  

For Heaven’s sake, Madame Renault would be here soon and he would have to be back to his normal state by then…

_But if I get dressed I will have to touch it, that or the cloth will brush against it and I don’t think I can stand that._

Valjean arched his back off the bed a little.  He wasn’t really allowing himself to think about the problem area.  All the same, he was biting at his lip so hard he could taste blood in his mouth. 

His hand was curling in the bedsheets and Valjean let out a soft whimper. 

He was truly at a loss. 

He remembered well enough that pushing it down between his thighs would not lessen the problem.

Still, he was… desperate.  Out of ideas. 

 _Just a touch,_ he thought.  _Just one touch to make this ridiculous thundering of my blood quiet down._

His hand uncurled slowly from the sheets and began to inch its way towards his body.

As the tips of his fingers ghosted over his hip, Valjean had to muffle a cry as his body tried to jerk up off the bed. 

Angry with himself, he rushed the rest and brought the flat of his palm to press down, hard, over the swell of his cock in his drawers. 

He could not muffle the cry this time.  At once he thought of Javert’s face, his lips, his shoulders, his hands, the movement of his coat as he walked. 

Valjean growled in frustration and threw himself back against the headboard with an audible _thunk_ of his skull.  Then he whimpered as he let the unrelenting press of his palm slide upwards along his length slightly. 

Javert’s bloody lips parted with his own thumb sliding between them a little way. 

Javert bending neatly in half at the waist to pick up those stupid potatoes. 

Javert walking away from him, upright and proud, his grey coat swirling around his long legs with each deliberate step. 

The way his huge hands sometimes tightened into fists at his sides when he became irate. 

_And his hands… His hands…_

Valjean’s own hand curved a little into a more fortuitous shape and he passed it up the cloth covering his cock again, grunting. 

In sudden agitation, he threw off his bedclothes entirely and pushed his drawers down enough to allow himself to bob freely in the cold air, which did absolutely nothing to cool him down.

He could not stand to look at himself like this, so he threw his other arm over his eyes as he curled his hand around his bare, weeping cock. 

He cried out again, and again, as he made a fist for his cock to slide through, muscle memory from Toulon guiding him all the way. 

_Javert in Toulon.  In his guard’s uniform, young and dark and with his huge hand wrapped tightly around his cudgel…_

Valjean gave one last almighty cry which broke in the middle, as his seed came rushing out of him in thick spurts to cover his hand and his quivering abdomen. 

Control over his breathing was slow to return, as were such wits as he possessed.  

The tears came then, as he lay shaking in the aftermath, tears of shame and guilt and rage.

He had no time to wait for them to abate, so they continued, along with pitiful small sobs, as he once again bundled up his soiled drawers.  At least he’d had the good sense to save the sheets from his filth this time.  But it wasn’t much of a consolation.  Not knowing that he’d have to find time to go out to the woods again to dispose of his drawers.  The practical part of his brain wondered how many times this might happen, and could he acquire more undergarments without attracting undue attention, but he stamped on the line of thought at once. 

It was far too much for him to bear, to think that this might happen again.  He did not yet know how he would come to terms with _this_ lapse. 

And worst of all, he had to face a day knowing that he might bump into the Inspector at any turn. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly promise that the rest of this story is not all going to be masturbation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean finally runs into Javert again and has to learn to cope with the feelings that stirs up. He also makes a physical and metaphysical journey into his own heart of darkness in order to try to help a poor family. But is he taking on too much? (Hint: the answer is yes, Valjean. Yes, you are trying to do too much. Social democracy without systemic change can only go so far. I've told you so many times. Why won't you learn? _*weeps*_ )
> 
> Long chapter is LONG. : )
> 
> WARNINGS: for internalised homophobia and religious guilt as well as Montreuil-sur-Mer-typical Valjean angst. I should have warned for them last chapter but I forgot, sorry. They will be reoccurring themes from now on. 
> 
> That all said, I hope you enjoy. : )

 

 

Three further mornings passed with Valjean waking heavy and erect each dawn. 

Once, he was able to subdue himself using the jug of frigid water, but he had then spent an extremely uncomfortable day feeling a deep terror that he may become aroused again at any moment.  So on the other days he gave in and sated his body with harsh, disgusted strokes, despising himself for it. 

By some miracle he managed to avoid bumping in to Javert in the flesh throughout this period.  Even so, he was at his wits end. 

It was not like Madeleine to appear so frayed.  This was a state of being that belonged solely to Jean Valjean. 

A week ago, it had seemed so easy to be wholly Monsieur le Maire or Pere Madeleine, for long stretches of time.  Now he grasped for whatever moments of calm he could reach. 

The nightly bulletins were the hardest part.  Forcing himself to look over them with a quick, impersonal eye and shove them away without really taking them in.  Dismissing young Laurent without any effort to make conversation each night. 

Nevertheless, the young soldier still managed to thank him profusely for the improved furnishings at the police post that Madeleine had allocated for.  Valjean knew that Javert would have been furious to hear the boy speak so, and from the furtive look on the Laurent’s face - as though he expected the Inspector to step up behind him any minute - he knew it, too.

Valjean was capable of recognising the inherent danger of his own state of mind. 

_How am I to gage Javert’s behaviour?  How am I to be on high alert for his inevitable denouncing me, if I cannot even bear to be in the same room as his underling?  If I can hardly read his bulletins?_

_I cannot take anything in.  I am unwell._

More than once Valjean came to himself, staring out of the window of the mayor’s office into the middle distance, with no idea how long he’d been there. 

And his stomach would clench in the most uncomfortable way whenever he would walk by the police post on his way to or from the town hall. 

 _This is a sickness._ He told himself.  _It will pass._

The increased hours he spent in church must surely have been noted around town.  Valjean fancied he could hear the whispers of the town gossips as he scurried from the churchyard each morning.  He felt as transparent as glass.  Surely all anyone would need to do was look at him, and they would see everything.  All the sin that he contained within him. 

It transpired that when Valjean did finally run into the Inspector again, on the fourth morning since the unfortunate reawakening of his baser self, it happened literally. 

Valjean had been hurriedly emerging into the town square when he suffered a bout of paranoia. He craned his neck to check over his shoulder as he rounded the corner of a building.  The next moment all he was aware of was a painful impact, the momentary squashing of his nose, and warmth. 

The smell of snuff and leather and soap clued him on to what, or rather, _who_ he had bumped into, and his brain seemed to abandon his body all at once. 

Both being rather powerfully built men, they bounced back some distance from their transferred momentum.  They stood a little way apart at the side of the town square, completely blocking the mouth of the alleyway, looking at each other in mute surprise.

There was the tittering sound of laughter from across the square, and Javert suddenly diverted his attention from Valjean to glare the onlookers into submission.  The laughter abruptly stopped, but Valjean could not make himself look away from Javert’s flushed face. 

“I do not think you can arrest them for that.”  Valjean surprised himself by being able to speak, though he hated how breathless he sounded.

Javert’s eyes and mouth gave that telling, convulsive twitch of his, and then he abruptly fixed his eyes to the wall left of Valjean’s shoulder. 

“The penal code is not without some oversights.” Javert stated, entirely without inflection.

Valjean was powerless to stop the daft grin that came over his own face at this, but at least Javert was only able to see it from the corner of his eye.

“I must be going.  Good day Monsieur le Maire.”

“Good day, Inspector.”  He managed weakly as Javert strode away. 

As he finally completed his journey to the mayor’s office and sank down behind his desk, he could hear nothing over the odd, numbing, rushing sensation in his head. 

Valjean touched his hand to his sore nose, and allowed himself to recall that it had momentarily been squashed up against the solidity of Javert’s collarbone through the rough material of his uniform.  There had been no space between them.  No space at all.  And the Inspector had been so warm.  Though perhaps anyone was that warm, when you pressed up against them.  Valjean wouldn’t really know.  In Toulon, the inmates had huddled together in the harsher winters under their sackcloth blankets.  But they had been like insects crammed into a hive and that huddling had been about survival.  That had been nothing to the sudden furnace warmth that had existed in that brief moment when he and Javert had been pressed together.  Even now, Valjean’s face was giving off enough heat that he could still feel it when he held his hand an inch or so away from the skin. 

He was shivering, but it was with warmth.  A strange sensation. 

_I am the world’s biggest fool and I must snap out of this and get to work._

But even that thought could not touch the odd buoyancy of his mood. 

It stayed with him, even throughout his morning meetings; with the doctor he funded and later at his factory with the woman who oversaw his female workers. 

The sensation did not leave him until evening time, by which point he felt more of a fool than ever. 

_I am desperate to avoid Javert, and then I see him and it is awful, but it is such a relief.  I cannot bear to see him, but not seeing him is almost worse._

He wondered momentarily if this was how Madame Pelletier had felt about the Inspector, but then he quickly dismissed the woman from his thoughts. 

 _This is a cruel and terrible sickness that has overtaken me._   _It would be so were it any…  Were it any…_ man _… that I…_

But that it should be _Javert_.  Javert who _knew_ who he really was, Javert who was very good at his job, Javert who had arrested so many criminals in Paris, Javert who was so strict and unwavering about the law, Javert whom Valjean must stay one step ahead of at all times… 

That was the cruellest part. 

_That is what makes this such a hard test that God has given me.  And I must not fail it._

Valjean left work early for the day.  He forwent reading his nightly bulletin entirely.  He walked home by way of the church and spent hours in there, lighting candles and praying on his knees for salvation. 

And if he spent hours that night in bed, tossing and turning and thinking almost exclusively of the way that Javert had visibly reddened after their collision, that was just another part of his test. 

 

 

*********

The following afternoon Valjean had cause to walk some miles out into the countryside.  He had overheard one of his workers talking about a poor family his brother knew.  Apparently, they had a small boy who had been taken very ill with what sounded like some sort of fever. 

Valjean had spoken to Dr. Marchand about what the worker had told him when he enquired further about the boy, and he left the hospital that afternoon with a bottle of medicine. 

The year was now drawing to a close, and although the temperature had not yet dipped, there had been a great deal of rain in the last few days.  The path Valjean walked was muddy, the sky was grey and the fields he passed by were depressingly waterlogged. 

At one point he saw six peasants in a row digging out a partially collapsed drainage ditch at the side of a field that more closely resembled a lake.  Their breath came out as steam in the cooling air.  The work looked back-breaking and miserable, and had Valjean not been on an important errand, he would likely have joined in to try and lighten their workload.  Instead, he tipped his straw hat to the men, who all called out respectful greetings.  As Valjean continued on his way, he wondered idly how he might make the lives of those men a little easier.  Perhaps he could arrange to have some lumber brought out to shore up the ditch so it did not collapse again.

The sun was beginning to wane as he arrived at the small, rundown house with its chimney smoking away against the horizon. 

He was greeted with little surprise and less ceremony by a woman with a haggard face, and shown in to the one largish room that made up the downstairs of the house. 

The sick child was laid on a sturdy table that had been drawn close to the fire, huddled in blankets, his pale body trembling all over, insensible.  Valjean pressed the bottle of medicine into the mother’s hands, but even as he did he knew that it would not be enough to save the boy.  The walls of the grim little dwelling were blackened with a damp that the fire clearly could not drive out.  The place Valjean had lived in as a young man in Faverolles had been difficult to heat and there had been holes in the eaves.  But Faverolles was to the south and inland.  It had not been as cold and dank as Montreuil-sur-Mer, and their rickety house had never grown such a thick layer of black mold as this one.  Some error in the construction here, perhaps. 

Still, Valjean and Jeanne had lived in constant terror of one of the children getting sick, knowing all too well that they could not afford the services of a doctor. 

The woman who was the boy’s mother reminded Valjean of Jeanne enough that it hurt his chest to look at her. 

He had come here with a pocket full of medicine, and other pockets full of coins and herbs and toys.  _Too little and too late,_ he judged. 

There was a redoubtable old woman, likely the boy’s grandmother, stirring a thin broth over the fireplace and Valjean spied several small, dirty faces peering at him from the loft.  He took the coins and toys and herbs from his pocket and placed them on a stool near the old woman.

Then he turned back to the mother and said, in a low voice; “I think it would be better if I took the child back to town with me and settled him in the hospital for the doctor to look after.”

The woman with the thin sandy hair began to cry silently, streams of tears running down her thin face.  But she nodded. 

“What is his name?” Asked Valjean, gently.

“Bastien.” Croaked the old woman who was still staring the broth behind him. 

Valjean laid his hand softly on the crying mother’s shoulder.  She looked at him with clear eyes through her tears. 

“Do you understand Madame?  It will be better if I take him for now.  The doctor will see to everything, he will make sure Bastien is well taken care of.  I would take you with me to the hospital, but it is getting dark outside and the journey is long–”

Bastien’s mother shook her head once and jerked her neck upwards to indicate the other children in the loft.  She wiped the tears on her face with one hand.

“Please,” she said, “Please take him, Pere Madeleine.  Thank you.”

And then she appeared unable to speak to him once more.  She bent over the child on the table, kissing his sweaty face and whispering in his ear. 

Valjean turned to the old woman. 

“You know these herbs?”  He asked her, indicating the plants he had brought. 

The old woman nodded.  “And I know what to do with them, Monsieur.”

“Good.  You should start giving them to the other children.  Tomorrow, I will send some men from my factory to bring firewood for you.  One of them built his own house, and he can take a look at the roof while he is here.  In the meantime, do you have enough wood to keep the fire going?”

She nodded again, her face inscrutable. 

“Good.” He said. 

Between Valjean and the child’s mother, little Bastien was wrapped in enough blankets to obscure his scrawny shape.  Valjean hoped there were some blankets left for the other children.  He would send some more tomorrow with the firewood, just to be sure. 

“I will see that Bastien is well taken care of.”  He assured the mother again as he left with the boy in his arms. 

There was a little orange light still in the sky over the distant town and he headed towards it, glad that his feet knew the path well.  There was a light rainfall starting, and he hefted the blankets closer around Bastien’s head to protect him. 

_How is it that I have spent all these years trying to do some good in this place and there still exist wretched families like that one, who live in squalor and misery._

_I have so much work still to do._

The child weighed very little to Valjean, and did not move save for his laboured breaths, so Valjean did not need to adjust his load very often. 

When he reached the place where the men had been digging the drainage ditch, he saw that they had all gone home for the evening, and he was glad.  Valjean was afraid that one of them might have been the boy’s father and he would have to waste time explaining where he was taking him. 

He made excellent time over the miles.  He did not concern himself picking his way around puddles, and he was wet and spattered with mud from the waist down by the time he was halfway back to Montreuil-sur-Mer.  His arms had begun to go stiff from their locked position, but this was nothing he couldn’t bear. 

Half his mind was blissfully focused on the task at hand, while the other half meandered from Faverolles, to Toulon, to Javert, and back again.

 _Javert coming here made me Valjean again._   He had realised.  _And that made me resent Madeleine a little_.  

_But Madeleine is a useful coat to put on.  Madeleine is a useful person._

Valjean could stand in a hovel like the one he had not long been in and know intimately what it was like to live in such a place.  Valjean could advise on herbs for different ailments, and his back was strong enough to dig out a drainage ditch in half the time it might take an ill-favoured man.  Valjean could have carried this boy across half of France, such was his endurance when the task required it. 

But it was Madeleine whose machinations could save a whole family like that one. 

And besides, Jean Valjean was also the man who had bullied poor Petit Gervais.  The man who had robbed a Bishop.  The man who had wasted the precious little time he had had with his family by resenting them.

And Jean Valjean was also the one who had unnatural feelings for _Javert_. 

To Madeleine, Javert was just a diligent and useful public servant.

Valjean had to remember that.  He had to find some way to reconcile himself with Madeleine again. 

What was difficult for him to understand was how little he wanted to stamp out the regrowth of Jean Valjean. 

It was fully dark by the time he reached the edge of town with the boy, and the faint glow of the lamps and the windows came as a relief after his long journey.

Less so the familiar tall shadow Valjean’s keen eyes picked out, leaning against the side of a house, watching him in the lamplight. 

“Monsieur le Maire…” Javert greeted hesitantly, sounding surprised to see him. 

 _I must look a peasant through and through_ , Valjean realised, _covered in mud and wearing this old floppy hat._  

“Javert.  This child is very sick, I am taking him to the hospital with the permission of his family.”

Javert stepped close enough to look at the boy in Valjean’s arms.  “Is the doctor still there?” He asked bluntly.

This had not occurred to Valjean.  Dr. Marchand left the care of the sick to the Sisters when he went home each evening.  “He will likely have gone home,” he admitted to the Inspector. 

For a second, Valjean could not even try to decipher what was happening on Javert’s face, but then the man spoke.  “Well…  I could go to the high-town and fetch him back to the hospital for you…” By the end of this sentence, Javert got an expression like he wanted to bite his own tongue off. 

Some off the overwhelming fondness Valjean felt must have shown on his face, because Javert’s eyebrows drew together a little, as if in confusion.

“Thank you, Inspector.  I would appreciate that more than I can say.”

“It’s nothing.”  Javert muttered at once, and did not even remember to tip his hat before striding away at an alarming pace (a pace which would later make Valjean redo all of his casual, back-of-the-mind calculations for a situation where he might have to leave town suddenly in the dead of night).

Valjean stared after the departing man before remembering the weight of Bastien in his arms and cursing himself.  He stroked the still-dozing boy’s face lightly and maneuvered him to his other side before hurrying to the low-town hospital he had funded.

Javert’s long legs notwithstanding, Valjean knew it would take a while for the doctor to get all the way back down to the hospital.  When he reached the building, he helped two of the Sisters to situate the child in an empty bed and then set himself to fetching and carrying any supplies they asked for.  As soon as the senior of the two Sisters turned their attention away from the boy for a moment and realised the filthy state Valjean was in, she sent him from the room to clean himself up. 

He was in the laundry room at the rear of the building, sans hat, coat and boots, futilely attempting to brush mud which hadn’t yet dried from his trousers when Javert came in the back door with Dr. Marchand - who was at least a foot shorter than him, but suffered fools about as well as Javert did. 

The doctor took one look at what Valjean was doing, laughed derisively and shook his head before setting down his own hat and coat and heading directly into the infirmary. 

Javert cleared his throat, standing there by the door with his erect posture and his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the cupboard behind Valjean’s rumpled head. 

“If that is all, Monsieur le Maire, I will be on my way.”

“Javert,” Valjean began, and this time there must have been something in his voice, because Javert’s eyes shot to meet his for half a heartbeat before flicking away again.  “Thank you for your assistance tonight.  It was kind of you…”

Javert gave a disgruntled snort.  “ _Kind!_   It was my job, Monsieur le Maire, I am paid to do it!”

 _Aye and not paid nearly well enough_ , thought Valjean in annoyance.  This was like Javert after the robbery at Widow Maberly’s all over again.  _He is insulted by compliments, especially those given by a con.  I should have remembered that._

_And God help me, I should not be giving him compliments anyway._

“Very well, Inspector, have it your own way.”  He ground out with a touch of Madeleine’s impatience in his voice.

Javert appeared to relax back into his stance. 

“Monsieur le Maire,” he said, remembering to tip his hat this time, and left, the door gusting shut with a smack in his wake.

Valjean did something he had not done since he was a child (and then only once).  He picked up the brush he had been using on his trousers and hurled it at the spot where Javert had just been standing, regretting the action as soon as the brush left his hand.  It made a hell of a racket as it bounced off the wall next to the door and hit the sideboard. 

“Are you alright, Monsieur le Maire?”  Enquired the sweet, caring voice of one of the Sisters, but when he attempted to re-enter the infirmary to reassure her, the two women and the doctor joined their voices at once telling him to stay out. 

“You’ve done a great service to the lad, Monsieur le Maire.”  Dr. Marchand’s voice was wry and always contained a note of finality.  “But you must get washed and change your clothes if you don’t want to do a disservice to him, or to the other patients.  Come back first thing in the morning if you like.  By then the child should be on the road to recovery.”

“His name is Bastien.”  Valjean stated from the doorway in his stockinged feet.  “And his mother…”

“Bastien, then!”  Exclaimed Marchand from where he stood examining the boy.  “Whatever his name is, I _can_ treat him.  Now I have him here, he will more than likely get well again, he is not too far along.  You have done the right thing for him, Monsieur le Maire.  But you may leave him to us for now.”

Valjean stood dripping in the doorway, ground his jaw and remembered that he was Madeleine.  “Very well, doctor, thank you.  Goodnight Sisters, and thank you for your assistance.”

He crammed his soaking feet back into his wet boots, picked up his coat and hat, and headed home to heat some water for a bath. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean angsts, checks in on Bastien, and watches a bit of M-sur-M street theatre.  
> As so often, this chapter continues directly from where the last chapter left off.
> 
> WARNINGS: all the usual fun religious guilt, internalised homophobia and period typical bullshit, plus a man is a real scumbag to a woman (and in general) in this chapter. (But another man gets to be a stone cold badass aswell. : ) )  
> Also, some racial slurs from an OC.

 

Madame Renault had gone home for the day by the time Valjean reached his house, so he lugged his tin bath into his bed chamber where Renault had left a fire burning low for him.  He stoked the fire and began to heat the first kettle of water.

Peeling off the filthy, damp layers of his clothing, Valjean caught sight of himself one too many times in the small looking glass he used to shave with. 

By the time he was naked, Valjean could no longer stand to glimpse the expanse of ruddy, weathered skin and he fumbled with the mirror to turn it to face the wall. 

He itched all over, and knew it wasn’t only from the dirt. 

He itched to upend the bath and smash the looking glass.  He itched to throw his every possession against the wall until all were ruined.

Resisting these urges, Valjean crouched sullen and bare by the fire, emptying the kettle into the bath each time it got hot enough and then stomping naked through the house to fetch more water from the cistern.

He had never dared to do such a thing before, even in the dead of night with his doors locked and shutters drawn, but tonight he was furious and could not bring himself to care about modesty in an empty house. 

Valjean squeezed his thick peasant’s body into the bath as soon as it was half full, his legs hanging over the sides, feet pointed in the direction of the fire. 

Scrubbing himself miserably, Valjean fervently wished that he could scrub away the real filth that lay below the surface of his skin.  He wished his accursed cock wasn’t bobbing and smearing the damp skin just under his belly button.  Most of all, he wished he could stop thinking of the bolt upright way Javert stood, or the small movements of his large hands, or the way his face could twist in a second from snarl to almost-laugh. 

 

*********

 

The following morning, Valjean chose to visit the hospital rather than the church. 

He stood clean and neat in the laundry room and was looked over by one of the Sisters before being allowed into the infirmary. 

Dr Marchand was perched on the edge of Bastien’s bed when Valjean finally approached.  He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and was applying leeches to Bastien’s naked chest with a pair of tweezers. 

The boy’s bright green eyes shot open at the sound of footsteps.  He fixed his gaze on Valjean, who sagged with immediate relief to see him awake. 

“The child has no idea how he came to be here.”  Greeted Dr Marchand in his usual wry tone, without looking up.  “Last he remembers he was sleeping in a hay loft with his brother and sisters.  No recollection of a mud-covered guardian angel.”

“Hush, Doctor.”  Murmured Valjean uncomfortably. “Don’t confuse the boy.”  To Bastien he said “I am Pere Madeleine.  I’m glad to see you awake.  I hope you will be well enough to see your mother again very soon…”

“Ach!”  Dr Marchand exclaimed, turning his head to look at Valjean so quickly that his spectacles slid down towards the bridge of his nose.  “Not likely I’ll be allowing the child back to that house any time soon if this is the state it’s put him in.”

Little Bastien peered between the two men, groggy and confused.  Madeleine reached into his pocket and took out a cup-and-ball toy that had been left over from the soup canteen opening.  He set it on the narrow table next to Bastien’s bed.  The boy’s eyes were instantly riveted on the toy. 

“That’s for you to play with when you’re feeling a bit better.  If the doctor says it’s alright.” Madeleine added as an afterthought.

Dr Marchand snorted.  “Oh yes, I’m certain the boy will stop to ask me before he plays with it.”  He had set his tweezers down into a dish.  His fingers were now tapping some sort of pattern on Bastien’s abdomen and he was looking thoughtful. 

Bringing Valjean aside from the boy, the doctor said “Monsieur le Maire.  To get this boy properly well will take weeks, and even then, I will be loath to return him to the conditions which put him in this state.  Not to mention that he is malnourished.  He drank two jugs of water upon waking and has since eaten three bowls of broth.  It will be a miracle if he keeps it all down…”

“Doctor, I will provide for everything the child requires to make a full recovery.  You know you need only ever ask for resources and I will see to it.  And as for the boy’s living conditions…  It is true that the family is in a bad way.  But I will see to it that the house is repaired and the damp cleaned away before the boy returns there.  I will take an interest in the family and make sure they have all they need.”

Dr Marchand tilted his head to one side and gave Madeleine a long, appraising look, the corners of his lips turning up slightly at one side. 

“The Inspector was dead right about you, Monsieur le Maire.”  The doctor said, evidently satisfied with himself. 

“ _What?_   What did Javert say about me?”  Valjean had asked before he could keep the urgency from his voice

Dr Marchand smiled indulgently.  “I confess, Monsieur le Maire, I was a little out of sorts last night when I was disturbed in the middle of my dinner.  I might have been rather short with the Inspector at first.  I asked him what you thought you were doing bringing peasant children for me to treat after a long day’s work.  Do you know what he said?  He said you believed it was your responsibility to save every single poor child in the district.  He’s a dour man, our Inspector, but I think he has you bang to rights, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean turned away so that Marchand could not see his flustered face. 

He was saved by the sound of wood clacking against wood, and the laughter of a young Sister as she watched a half asleep Bastien attempt to catch the ball in the cup. 

*********

 

That night, Valjean once again left the mayor’s office early to head to church and pray for release from his body’s perversions and his unnatural thoughts.  He was walking down a street parallel to the river when he heard a commotion of some sort near the waterside.  There were raised voices, and was that a woman _screaming_?  He swiftly changed his course to head towards the sounds and eventually emerged into the rough courtyard near the docks where the sailors off the ships would come to carouse with fallen women of the town. 

The sight that met his eyes stopped Valjean dead in his tracks. 

Javert stood tall in the centre of a circle of onlookers. He was intent on a couple stood opposite him. 

Silently, Valjean drew nearer to the crowd, craning his neck in an attempt to discover what the quarrel was about. 

There was a grimy, bearded sailor - a brute of a man only half a head shorter than Javert and much broader - gripping tightly onto a fallen woman in a lurid gown.  The sailor’s bulky arms were tightening around the prostitute and he held the sharp point of a dirk to her thin white neck.  The poor woman was entirely silent, shivering and looking at Javert in mute appeal while the sailor shook her and squeezed her and railed at the world at large. 

“Little whore owes me what I paid for!  A man has got a right to what he’s paid for!” He was shouting now, spittle flying from his mouth in Javert’s direction.  The reek of booze in the courtyard was palpable, and, watching the sailor, Valjean found it easy to imagine that the stench emanated entirely from his drunken form. 

“This woman says you did not have enough coin.  Let her go now.”  Javert spoke in a low voice, as though he was asking one of his underlings to pass him a piece of paper. 

The sailor made an inarticulate cry of rage. “I’ll be damned if some piece of GITAN SCUM is going to tell me what I have and haven’t paid for!  I know my rights!  I’ll have this woman dead or alive.”

At this, the woman merely shuddered and kept her eyes fixed, unmoving, on Javert’s face.  The crowd encircling the commotion shifted backwards as one.

Javert took a casual step forward towards the pair.

The sailor roared and flicked the dirk away from the prostitute’s neck in Javert’s direction, his stance shifting constantly from foot to foot. 

“Don’t come near me, you mongrel!  I’m warning you, you filthy gitan GIANT! Stay back!  I’ll cut her head off!”  The sailor jerked the point of his dirk indecisively between Javert and the woman. 

“Be reasonable.”  Javert said in his low voice.  “You wouldn’t get the blade through her skin before I was on you.  You’re surrounded by soldiers.  And more will be along from the Garrison in a few minutes.  Put the woman down and come with me.”

The distinct sound of a musket being raised somehow cut through all the other noise in the courtyard and Javert’s eyes left the sailor at once. 

**“** _Laurent!_ ” He roared.  “You put that down this instant.  Put that _down_!”

Valjean spun his head to spy Private Laurent stood a few feet behind the main throng of onlookers.  He was shaking.  Heeding the Inspector, the boy slowly lowered his musket to point at the ground. 

Javert’s attention snapped back to the sailor.  He had taken another small step forwards while the sailor was distracted by the musket.

“There now.  I won’t let them shoot you.  Let the woman go now, and come with me.”

The sailor appeared to be wavering.  His grip on the prostitute had loosened a fraction. The dirk was away from her neck entirely now, pointing at Javert.  The sailor’s face was looking less defiant and more miserable by the moment. 

Valjean had not seen Javert take out his cudgel, but it was there in his hand now, his arm raised only slightly to show it to the sailor, the threat implied softly. 

“How fast are you?”  Javert asked, amicably.  “I have been called quick, I admit.  Then again, perhaps you are faster.  Perhaps.  Let the woman go now.”

The sailor glanced once around the assembled crowd, perhaps hoping to find the friendly face of one of his shipmates, but they had evidently all made themselves scarce.  He looked back at Javert then, and there was a kind of resignation on his drunken face.

“A working man should be able to buy himself a woman when he makes port!  I was only a few centimes short!  This cold-hearted bitch!”  He shook the woman violently and she gasped. 

Javert took another step forward, and his cudgel raised a barely noticeable inch or two.  His stance was viscerally familiar to Valjean from the violent demonstrations Javert had made when he first came to Toulon. 

“Come now, time is short.  The soldiers are on their way here.  Let the woman go.”  Javert’s tone was affable, friendly even. 

The sailor was looking at Javert with open fear now.  His shoulders had sagged a little.  “Ugly bitch wasn’t worth the money anyway.”  He complained. 

He let the woman slip free from his clutches and lunged for Javert with the dirk raised.

A scream was trying to work its way up and out of Valjean’s throat as he watched, helpless.  But in two smooth, lightning-quick movements of his arm, Javert struck the man twice, once on the temple on the way up, and then, in another heartbeat, on the base of his skull as Javert brought the cudgel back down.  The sailor crumpled to the ground in a heap and his dirk dropped into a puddle between the cobblestones. 

And it was all over.

“Bernard!” Javert shouted.  “The woman.” 

Javert’s duty sergeant scurried forwards from the crowd and put one hand gently on the back of the shivering prostitute.  Sergeant Bernard escorted her away towards the police post, talking softly in her ear. 

“Laurent!  Leblanc!  Patrol.  And keep your muskets down, do you hear me?  Keep them _down_.” 

With a sharp salute from young Laurent and a mutter from Leblanc, the two soldiers separated and made their way in opposite directions through the crowd – which was rapidly dispersing now that the drama appeared to be over for the night. 

Javert crouched down to secure the unconscious sailor’s hands and turn him over – no easy feat given the bulk of him.  The Inspector then reached into the puddle and brought out the dirk that had fallen into it, examining the blade.

Valjean stepped forward and Javert lifted his head to look at him.  He did not appear at all surprised to see him - only tired resignation showed on his face. 

“Monsieur le Maire.”  He muttered, as he wrapped the dirk up in one of his gloves. 

“Inspector.”  Valjean had to physically bite his lip to prevent himself from uttering anything that Javert might construe as praise or undue concern.  “Would you allow me to help you get this man to the cells, as your men are otherwise engaged?”

Javert gave his short, bark-like laugh.  He turned away from Valjean slightly, pocketing the dirk, and shrugged. 

“May as well.  We’ll be here ‘til gone midnight if we wait for backup from the garrison.”

That was how Valjean came to carry a man’s feet through the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer at night, all the way back to the police post, instead of attending church. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I found this a really tricky chapter to write, not even entirely sure why. Hope it reads OK.   
> : )


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing directly on from where the last chapter left off (I don't really need to say that anymore, do I? Apparently I can't leave the happenings in M-sur-M unreported on for even a single moment.), Valjean and Javert carry the unconscious prisoner back to the police post. And drama happens. 
> 
> Additional Warnings: some medical gore, plus Javert's canon low self esteem.

Getting the sailor’s bulk through the door of the police post proved the most difficult part of their silent journey from the docks.  Soon enough, Sergeant Bernard came to their assistance and held the door so they could carry the unconscious brute through.

The prostitute that the man had been terrorising was sat in a chair behind Bernard’s desk, wrapped in a blanket.  She gave the mayor and the inspector only the most cursory of glances before turning back to the hot drink that Bernard had apparently made her. 

Javert reached into his left coat pocket and handed the glove-wrapped dirk over to Bernard with one hand while resting the drunkard’s head and shoulders on the desk with the other.

“She won’t get into any trouble, will she?  That woman?”  Valjean asked Javert when they had descended the stairs and were manhandling the drunken sailor on to a cot in an empty cell. 

Javert made a derisive grunt.  “What could I charge her with, Monsieur le Maire?  Refusing to couple with a man?”

Valjean looked at the Inspector over the form of the sleeping drunkard and tried desperately not to consider the words the man had just spoken.

He could feel a thick blush spreading up his neck and into his face.  He looked down to try to hide it. 

And that was how he spotted the dark red-brown stain on the right side of Javert’s grey overcoat.

He gasped loudly and pointed at the mark.

Javert glanced at Valjean’s face in annoyance before looking down at his own torso. 

“Ah.”  The Inspector said mildly, and he gingerly touched his hand to the stain on his coat, only to wince in pain. 

“God, Javert!  You let that damned oaf cut you!”  Valjean shouted.  “Quick, Sergeant Bernard!  We need your help!  Javert, take your coat off, man.  All your clever talk and you let that blackguard get too close!”

Javert stood stock still, pressing at the stain at his middle, his face showing discomfort. 

Sergeant Bernard entered the cell and stared at them expectantly.  The soldier’s posture changed when he noticed the bloodstain. 

“Sergeant, the Inspector is hurt.”  Valjean began breathlessly.  “You must run and fetch Dr Marchand…”

“The Sergeant will do no such thing, Monsieur le Maire.”  Javert intoned.  With one last look over the brute on the cot, he left the cell to stand in the narrow corridor, gesturing for Valjean and Bernard to do the same.  Javert locked the cell door with practised efficiency, and only then did he move to shrug stiffly out of his overcoat, wiping ineffectually at the stain before handing the garment to Bernard in disgust.  “The Sergeant must remain at the desk, there must be at least one fully able-bodied man in the police post at all times, and Laurent and Leblanc are patrolling the streets.  Besides, this is only a little scratch, that drunken fool barely caught me at all…”

The red-brown patch on Javert’s uniform jacket was larger than the one on his overcoat had been.  He stared down at it for a moment and sighed. 

Javert walked up the stairs and turned into the office.  Valjean followed close behind him, frantically wringing his hands, while Bernard brought up the rear carrying Javert’s ruined coat. 

“Is he alright?”  The prostitute called after them from behind Bernard’s desk, and did not receive a response.

Javert sank down into one of the new chairs that Madeleine’s docket had bought, and took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.  Valjean was incensed by the slow and thoughtful way the man pressed the fabric down over the ever-growing red patch.    

“For Heaven’s sake Javert!”  He shouted.  “I will go for the doctor then!  Someone must!  Sergeant Bernard, please… The Inspector may be badly hurt.  Please keep an eye on him while I am gone.”

Javert snorted, still pressing on the fabric.  “The doctor will be annoyed to be disturbed.  This is nothing.  It’s just…”

“Inspector, if you say it’s just a trifle, so help me…”

Valjean left the room before he could say something he would really regret.  He walked right past the poor prostitute who was hovering at the doorway of the office looking concerned.  He stormed out into the night and headed up to the high-town as fast as his legs would carry him.

He pushed his panic away from himself and refused to examine it.  The next thing he knew he was at Dr Marchand’s house, hammering on the front door, breathing heavily. 

At length, the door was flung open by the doctor himself, evidently in a fury, which only appeared to worsen on seeing the Mayor. 

“What in God’s name do you want this time?  Tell me, is a man allowed no rest -” The compact man began his tirade, but Valjean cut him off before he could really get going. 

“It’s Javert… the Inspector…  He’s been stabbed.  With a knife.  He needs help.”

Dr Marchand stood there with his mouth still open and gave Valjean a long, hard look as he considered this before throwing up his hands in defeat.  He picked up his bag and coat from a small table by the door. 

“ _Fine_.  Lead the way then.  As you and the Inspector are so determined between the two of you that I am not to have a quiet evening at home.  _Clara_ , I’ll be _late_.”  The doctor shouted the last line into his hallway before pulling his front door shut with a loud _slam_. 

“Of course, it is all very well for you unmarried men to run around saving sick peasant children and getting stabbed long into the night.  You will have to find me an assistant, Monsieur le Maire, if you expect me to work around the clock.”  The doctor grumbled. 

“Very well.”  Valjean replied tightly as they walked.  “I will hire you an assistant.”

This appeared to take the wind out of Marchand’s sails.  He peered thoughtfully at Valjean over his spectacles.  “You are far less capable of standing being berated than the Inspector, did you know that?  Anyway, you may as well tell me.  How did he manage to get himself stabbed?”

“Some ridiculous heroics as usual.”  Valjean muttered unkindly, and wished he hadn’t when the doctor glanced at him looking even more thoughtful than usual.  “A drunken sailor was abusing a woman and he intervened.”

“Was the wound gushing or was it dripping?”

Valjean wished Marchand would walk faster.  “Well… neither, I don’t think.  It might have been dripping a little bit…  He still had his jacket on and he was pressing his handkerchief into the wound when I left.”

“Sensible man, the Inspector.”  Sniffed Marchand approvingly.  “Dripping is usually manageable.  I dare say your friend will be alright, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean cleared his throat and did not correct him, wishing the doctor wouldn’t talk so much. 

By the time Marchand’s shorter legs finally reached the police post, Valjean’s patience was nearing its limit. 

The place appeared deserted - the prostitute had evidently left and Sergeant Bernard was nowhere to be seen. 

Then Valjean heard Javert’s voice snapping at Bernard from the office, something about checking on their unconscious prisoner.  Relief surged down Valjean’s arms and shot into his fingertips.

The Sergeant gave them a brief nod as he passed them heading down to the cells to do Javert’s bidding. 

The doctor entered the office first.  Valjean took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back as he followed. 

_This is not fair,_ was, absurdly, the first thing he thought as he saw Javert.  The Inspector was sat shirtless in front of his desk, with several candles illuminating him.  His leather stock and his bloody garments were set on one of the evidence shelves near the desk, along with his cudgel.

Javert’s handkerchief, pressed over his wound, was now completely soaked in blood and there was a small, sticky puddle of the stuff next to his chair. 

“I am told you’ve been up to some heroics, Inspector.”  Marchand said, hefting his heavy leather bag onto the desk.  Javert had evidently cleared a space on the surface anticipating this. 

“Hardly.”  The Inspector answered evenly, then he hissed as Marchand gently removed his hand and the handkerchief from the wound. 

Valjean could not help but look.  There was an open, wet red slice gaping the flesh on the right side of Javert’s torso, running in a slightly diagonal line down his lower two ribs and onto his abdomen.  Without the cloth pressing on it, a steady pulse of blood oozed out of the wound and trickled down towards the waist of Javert’s uniform trousers. 

The doctor tutted.  “That’s not much of a _stab_ wound, Monsieur le Maire.”

“I told him.”  Javert said triumphantly.  “It’s just a scratch.  I _told_ him not to bother you…”

“You can be quiet.”  Snapped Marchand at once.  “It’s not much of a stab wound but it’s no scratch either.  Monsieur le Maire was quite right to come and fetch me.  You’ll still need the bleeding stopped, won’t you?  And stitching back together?  I doubt you’d much fancy an infection, busy man like you.”

Javert shut his lips and glowered.  Valjean could not seem to stop himself from smirking despite the gravity of the situation, so he had to turn away for a moment lest Javert see it. 

When he got control over his face again and looked back, Javert was still shirtless.  Shirtless and not so badly injured that Dr Marchand couldn’t patch him up.  _Thank God_.

Still, the expanse of Javert’s bare skin on display was nearly overwhelming.  Valjean had not wanted to see the narrowness of Javert’s waist, or the sparse line of black fuzz that ran from his navel down underneath his trousers.  Or how dark his nipples were.

He wondered if he could reasonably leave now.  He had done all he could for the Inspector, surely.  Surely.  He could leave him in Dr Marchand’s capable hands now. 

Bernard re-entered the room to place a large bowl of water on the desk for the doctor’s use, and then obediently went back out to his post before Javert could even open his mouth.

_I’ll make my excuses and leave now,_ Valjean thought. 

“Monsieur le Maire, come here please.” Marchand said.  He had made quick work of washing his hands and the wound.  Now he was looking thoughtful and manipulating the edges of the wound a little in between bouts of pressing a clean cloth to it to stem the flow of blood. 

As Valjean hesitantly stepped nearer, the doctor pressed Javert’s hand over the cloth, then he took several implements from his bag and began cleaning them. 

“I’ll need you to stem the blood and perhaps hold a candle for me.”  Marchand explained. 

Valjean’s heart sank, even as it leapt, traitorously, into his throat. 

He dared not meet Javert’s eyes but he could feel them on him suddenly. 

Marchand took off his coat and rolled it up, placing it on the ground next to the congealing patch of Javert’s blood.  He washed his hands again in the basin of water and then sank, gingerly onto his knees on the rolled-up coat, wincing at the loud pop of his aging joints. 

“I’ll need you to stay very still, Inspector.”

“Very well.”  Javert muttered. 

Valjean’s eyes stuck momentarily on the movement of Javert’s throat and chest as he spoke.  His face burned, and he moved behind Javert’s chair. 

“No, no, come here, by my side, Monsieur le Maire,” chastised Marchand, peering through his glasses as he threaded a curved needle.  “Bring a chair if you need it.”

Valjean resigned himself to his fate.  He rolled up his own coat and placed it on the floor next to Marchand, washed his hands in the bowl of water, and sank down on his knees beside the doctor, picking up a candle from the desk. 

_This is not fair_ he reminded himself, when his eyes found themselves on a level with Javert’s dark brown nipples.  _Oh God_.

“There,” Dr Marchand advised, taking Valjean’s spare hand. “Press there.  Harder.  That’s right.  But a little harder.  That’s where the blood is coming from, and I need you to slow it.”

Valjean’s hand was unceremoniously pressed to Javert’s bare skin, just below his ribcage.  He heard the Inspector’s sharp intake of breath but could not have brought himself to look at the other man’s face for a thousand pardons.  He hunched his shoulders a little and tried to keep his eyes focused solely on Javert’s navel, attempting to control his own breathing, with limited success. 

“I am going to begin stitching now, Inspector.”  Marchand said, intently focused on the needle in his hands. 

“Very well Doctor.”  Javert’s voice sounded rougher than usual. 

Valjean’s eyes flicked to watch the needle as it pierced the skin to the side of Javert’s wound.  Under his hand, he felt the muscles of Javert’s taut abdomen spasm, but the man did not make a sound.

Marchand drew the needle out of the other side of the wound and carefully pulled the flaps of flesh together, before his needle plunged in again for the second stitch. 

Again, Valjean felt the taut flesh under his hand twitch.  He pressed his hand firmly in the position he had been instructed to, and held the candle as close to the wound as he dared with his other hand. 

Marchand was working on the third stitch now, drawing the sides of the wound gently but firmly together once more. 

The doctor paused the stitching to press a cloth soaked with alcohol to the wound. 

This time, an extended shudder went through the plane of muscle that was Javert’s abdomen. 

Without meaning to, Valjean moved his thumb in a gentle motion underneath Javert’s ribs.  He stilled his hand immediately upon realising what he had done.  Javert said nothing at all.  Valjean doubted he’d ever be able to look the man in the face again. 

The fourth, fifth and sixth stitches went in, each with a spasm from Javert and an immense effort of will by Valjean not to give a comforting stroke of his thumb. 

Then came another swipe of alcohol over the wound.

This time Javert hissed, very quietly, through his teeth, and Valjean’s thumb moved of its own accord to softly stroke Javert’s skin. 

_He will arrest me or kill me for sure now,_ he thought in a reckless panic. 

Javert neither moved nor spoke.  His hands were gripping the arms of the chair in which he sat. 

He accepted the last two stitches just as stoically as he had the rest, though the wound was widest at the bottom and the pulling taut of the thread over his abdomen was a slow process that was painful to witness.  Marchand pressed alcohol over this bottom part of the wound the longest, and this time at the tremor that went through Javert’s belly, Valjean moved his hand away from Javert’s warm skin entirely in order to avoid a caress.  He could feel the sensation of the skin on his palm as clearly as if he was still touching it. 

“There.”  Dr Marchand said, inspecting his own handiwork with a critical eye as he knotted the last stitch and severed the thread.  He picked up a clean piece of cloth and placed it over the length of the wound before taking Valjean’s free hand and pressing it firmly over the cloth while he himself stood. 

“That should heal well.”  The doctor was saying as he busied himself above. 

Valjean barely heard him.  He was surreptitiously watching the rise and fall of Javert’s large ribcage as he breathed in and out.  He could feel the movement under the cloth, too.  He hardly noticed when Marchand crouched down again with a length of bandage in his hand, and the doctor had to nudge him gently out the way. 

“Here, Monsieur, go around the back of him.”  Marchand instructed. 

Valjean stood on stiff knees and put down the candle he had been holding.  He walked around to Javert’s back.  Tension was evident in the set of the broad shoulders.  Valjean looked at the shape of the sharp shoulder blades under the skin.  He blinked then as he saw something unexpected on Javert’s back. 

Dr Marchand cleared his throat loudly. 

Valjean jumped.  “I am very sorry.”  He said at once, hating the sound of his voice.  In order to do the doctor’s bidding, he had to place one hand on Javert’s bare shoulder in order to manipulate his body.  He bent Javert forwards slightly so the bandage could be passed around his back.  They repeated these motions until the bandage was wound tightly around Javert’s middle. 

Valjean’s eyes returned to the unmistakeable marks of a lash upon Javert’s broad back.  He tried to make sense of what he was seeing.  The marks were old, faded, stretched, as though they’d been put there when Javert was a small boy.

The bandage ran out, and Dr Marchand tucked and pinned the end into place.  Then he made Javert stand and bend his body ever so slightly, and still no fresh blood was evident through the bandage. 

“I’d call that done for the night.”  Marchand said tiredly, pushing his spectacles up to rub at his eyes.  He meticulously cleaned his equipment before collecting it back into his leather bag.

“Thank you, Doctor.”  Javert said with an awkward grimace, hurrying to reapply his bloody shirt just as soon as he realised he would be allowed to do so. 

His dark, marred skin disappeared back under a layer of bloodstained white and Valjean watched furtively throughout.

“Now, Inspector.”  Marchand was saying in his strictest tone.  “I know what sort of man you are.  But I must insist on you retiring to bed to rest now.  And have a few cups of water before you do.  I know of course that it would be folly to ask you to remain home tomorrow while you recover, but I expect you to remain behind your desk doing paperwork all day.  If you will come to the infirmary at six o’ clock tomorrow evening I will check the wound and change your bandage.  Now, is that all understood?  Must I make your friend here escort you home or will you obey?”

Javert’s head jerked up to stare incredulously at Valjean on hearing the doctor’s words, and Valjean was all too conscious of the mirror image they made at that moment, flustered and indignant. 

“Well?”  Dr Marchand enquired again, obviously taking a perverse pleasure in commanding them both like this. 

“I will return to my home directly, Doctor.”  Javert muttered, casting his eyes down.

“Good.”  Said Marchand, fastening his coat and picking up his leather bag.  “No doubt I will see you both tomorrow.

The doctor stood leaning against the desk with his arms folded over his chest until Javert appeared to realise what he was waiting for.  Valjean watched with inexplicable fondness as Javert sullenly put on his ruined uniform jacket and overcoat.  The Inspector then spoke tersely to a tired looking Sergeant Bernard, giving him instructions, before finally stepping out into the town square with Valjean and Marchand following. 

“Well, goodnight gentlemen, and please feel free to allow me to spend tomorrow evening with my wife.”

“Thank you for your dedication, Doctor.” Valjean called after the short man as he scurried away towards the high-town.  He wished he had had the sense to offer to accompany him home so he hadn’t been left standing here with Javert.

After a moment they both began walking in the direction of their homes in the low-town. 

A few streets into their walk, Javert cleared his throat. 

“Monsieur le Maire.”  He began.  “I… thank you.  For fetching the Doctor.”

Valjean almost lost his footing.  All his blood was rushing back to his face, it seemed. 

“You… You’re welcome Inspector.  You were very brave.  Defending that poor woman.  And preventing any shots from being fired.  I am sorry for berating you earlier.  It was out of concern, you see…  You put yourself in danger again, but you had no choice, and you were… very brave.  You were injured doing your duty to a high standard, and so it is my responsibility to take… to make sure you get the treatment you need…”

Javert was looking directly at him, his eyes tiredly candid, and he was clearly too flustered to speak. 

Valjean’s heart was hammering harder now than when the drunken sailor had lunged at the Inspector.

They reached the point in their walk where they must separate in order to reach their own dwellings. 

“Goodnight Inspector.”  Valjean managed through an exceptionally dry throat. 

“Monsieur le Maire.”  Javert inclined his head for the briefest of moments before striding off.

Valjean let out a breath he felt as though he had been holding all night. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter is LONG. I enjoy writing these longer chapters, but if this trend continues I may have to leave a slightly longer gap between updates as the pace while still attempting some form of quality control is wearing on me. Just a heads up, my loves. : ) xXx.

**Author's Note:**

> *I have been working on this behemoth on and off for 9 years (please don't get your hopes up assuming that that length of time will be reflected in the quality *weeps*) and I am so tired of it and I want to stop looking at it. During that long, long time, three kind souls have seen it at different stages and given me great advice, betaing, and encouragement: AmZ, Weasleylover1, and Hoflords. Thank you all so much for your assistance.  
>  ***Javert in this story is a person of colour and this story contains some period typical racism. All of the assumptionts that Valjean and other characters within make about his heritage and background are just that, assumptions based on period-typical ideas and ignorance. Any and all questions about my headcanons about Javert in this story (who is none POV so retains some mystery) are welcomed.**  
>  *I intitially attempted to write this story with a godlike narrator in order to lovingly ape Hugo's style. I evenually learned the error of my ways and shifted to a Valjean POV in order to safeguard my own sanity. That said, there are some bits of godlike narration left in... for the fun of it. (OK, because I find them funny) Apart from the first paragraph, mostly these bits appear in brackets.  
>  ***Valjean constantly changes between thinking of himself as Valjean and as Madeleine. This is deliberate and usually meant to signify something about his state of mind. Sorry if it's annoying.**  
>  *My love of commas and run on sentences rivals Hugo's, which is nicely fitting. : P
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope there is some enjoyment to be had. xXx.


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